<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>amoreena by tnevmucric</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26402284">amoreena</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tnevmucric/pseuds/tnevmucric'>tnevmucric</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Persona 5, Persona Series</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - No Metaverse (Persona 5), Angst, Break Up, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Implied Past Child Abuse/Neglect, Love, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Past Character Death, Sexual Content, based on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:14:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>24,329</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26402284</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tnevmucric/pseuds/tnevmucric</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>the first time ren ever visits the ocean he hates it. the sand goes everywhere and he suspects he’ll be cleaning it out of his clothes for weeks to come. ryuji keeps telling him that the salt is good for his skin but if ryuji tells him one more time that the salt is good for his skin, he might just walk into tide and end it all. he’s got three journals to write by tuesday and he just wants to go home—haru’s birthday isn’t even until next friday, why do they need to celebrate now? the first time ren visits the ocean he wants to get right back into the car and sleep the next few hours into oblivion.</p><p>the first time ren visits the ocean, he meets goro.</p><p>or: the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind au</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Akechi Goro &amp; Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro &amp; Persona 5 Protagonist, Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist, Sakura Futaba &amp; Yoshizawa Sumire | Yoshizawa Kasumi, Sakura Futaba/Yoshizawa Sumire | Yoshizawa Kasumi, Takemi Tae/Yoshizawa Sumire | Yoshizawa Kasumi (one-sided)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. shibuya to yokosuka</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>for this fic only the main plot points of eternal sunshine have been used. title from the elton john song of the same name.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Amamiya Ren did not grown up near the ocean. You’d think this negligence of exploration would have grown into a romantic, idealistic view of what the ocean was and what it represents, but it might as well have done the opposite. He was no Byron, though he had his moments after a night of red wine. The town Ren grew up in was a 6-hour drive from the coast and the air was as dry as the salt lakes he’d visited in Karratha. The last time he was in Australia, the weather got so hot that the floor fan in his motel stopped working because the heat had warped the blades. His town was known for its fertility in agriculture, though. The earth was damp enough for the sugarcane to grow and sweet enough that the grass would stay a healthy green. Paths of rounded stone trailed through the streets in a nod to the mountains overhead and the local mall rivaled the single high school there in both size and capacity. His mother was a temp who loved Elton John and his father just worked fruit and veg in the local market. His preferred music was none. Their love story was apparently so daring that it could never be told—but Ren just assumed they didn’t like retelling something that had fizzled out so quickly.</p><p>Imagine this; you’re a kid, trying to watch your cartoons. Your dad’s a half metre away smoking his third carton of cigarettes today and he asks you to scratch his back. You’ve done it before, but you don’t really like it. Your mom’s in the kitchen waving the smoke away with a cheap fan and she tells you to ignore him and go put your cartoons on in the other lounge. A single child in the middle of a failing marriage makes you no longer a child, but a messenger for teens. Dad calls mom a cunt, says she’s sleeping with her boss. Mom isn’t, but she does fancy the fisherman she buys trout from. Dad says: <em>“Why would I want to drive you all the way to the fucking ocean?” </em>Mom wishes she could live under the sea.</p><p>The first time Ren ever visits the ocean he hates it. The sand goes everywhere and he suspects he’ll be cleaning it out of his clothes for weeks to come. Ryuji keeps telling him that the salt is good for his skin but if Ryuji tells him one more time that the salt is good for his skin, he might just walk into tide and end it all. He’s got three journals to write by Tuesday and he just wants to go home—Haru’s birthday isn’t even until next Friday, why do they need to celebrate now? The first time Ren visits the ocean he wants to get right back into the car and sleep the next few hours into oblivion.</p><p>The first time Ren visits the ocean, he meets Goro.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Every day that you wake up feeling like shit is probably a day that you’ve forgotten something.</p><p>Shit days are just another part, another tiny cog in the mindfuck that is déjà vu. ‘A’ happens so ‘B’ happens so surely ‘C’ is meant to come up the rear—oh, that’s actually ‘K’. My bad, says the brain. Let me play the theme to that soap commercial you like as an apology. You do not like the theme to the soap commercial.</p><p>The luckiest people get some kind of inkling when they’re going to have a shit day. They’ll go to bed with the realisation that <em>man, tomorrow I’m going to be a real dick to everybody </em>or <em>hey, I’ve been weirdly happy these last two weeks, something’s gotta give.</em><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>So I wake up and it’s that shitty feeling. It’s that shitty day. Déjà vu.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I brush my teeth staring in the mirror and just know it—something out there has decided that today it’s my <em>destiny</em> to cry the minute I step a foot outside my apartment. I don’t know why. Do we ever know? I remember being 11 and writing sad poems in the shapes of tears drops about tears falling so hard and so fast that they may as well have been men falling from buildings. I was 11 and my teacher pulled me aside and asked: “Are you in distress?” <em>YES!</em> I exclaimed. <em>HUGE</em> distress! <em>DEVASTATING </em>distress! Now fix me.</p><p>You cannot fix the things that are born from nothing. Really, you can’t come close. Like, try to fix <em>breathing.</em> You can’t. An asthma puffer just nudges the process along and little wholes cut into the base of your throat still make things wheezy and painful. Allergic reactions are the same; your Epi-Pen is as good as a ballpoint. So try to fix unexplainable sadness. Our déjà vu sadness. Antidepressants make you go bipolar and fat and therapy tells you to blame your parents but we already do. Our unexplained sadness. Your levels are down or maybe you’re unfulfilled. Our inability to open our eyes when we have to. Our dragging feet. The crying—Jesus Christ, the crying.</p><p>I spit, rinse. Even these small things are so much on the shit days. On the shit days there are no reasons to do anything, there are only better reasons to kill yourself.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Another thing about shit days. You suddenly become self-aware of how little you impact the world. I tap my train pass against the scanner like every morning and like every morning the resident policeman doesn’t look my way, more focused on devouring his coconut-crème éclair than making sure everyone pays their dues. You are not the shiny sun in everyone’s vast space. You’re your own flying shit ball burning through the atmosphere. You’re the speck of dust drowning in the bottom of a filling hourglass. You’re an elderly mans’ soiled bedpan. Today I notice these things and I notice me; I’ve tied my shoes with three knots on either side and I’ve packed my satchel with things I need to do, even though I know I will not get them done. Shit days mean a shit walk to the train station, a shit train fare, and a shit job waiting for you in the distance.</p><p>My job isn’t shit. I’m just unfulfilled.</p><p>“I really am sorry.” My editor would fire me if I weren’t the only decent journalist they had. “No, I know. I know. Totally out of the blue, you wouldn’t believe it.” He doesn’t, but he’s willing to let it slide this one time. “First thing tomorrow, okay. Thanks. Bye.”</p><p>Even this train bothers me today. I called in sick and I got on my regular train anyway, what kind of hooky am I playing, brain? I think I’m just tired. I want to be home in my bed, crying about god knows what. Maybe today it was meant to be a sad movie or maybe somewhere one of my distant relatives died—I just don’t know. Maybe déjà vu is time-travel and my shitty day today means a shitty day in exactly 12 years, at this exact time, in this exact place: crying against the thick glass window of a train.</p><p>There are better ways to spend a Wednesday.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I’ve never been to the ocean before now. I was planning on just getting off at the next stop and waiting for the train that would to take me back to Yongen’s platform but the longer I sat, the more I didn’t want to move. Dad would call me lazy if he knew. Better yet, he’d pinch at me until I sat up and did something useful.</p><p>I get off at Yokosuka and it feels like every other coastal town I’ve been to. I say I’ve never been to the ocean before, and I really haven’t, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t seen a fair few by now. It’s a bit like strangers dogs where you can think they’re cute but you shouldn’t get too close just in case. I’ve never dipped my feet or drawn in the sand—I just make up some picturesque description of the surrounding landscape and the rich history and send it to my editor for the go-ahead. Really I’m thinking about how many people have probably pissed straight into the sand where women lay to sunbathe.</p><p>Yokosuka is nice enough, I guess. Travelling has left me desensitised to astonishment. That or I’m sagely bitter and old at 29. The latter is more likely.</p><p>Unexplained sadness: identified. I feel lonely.</p><p>I don’t feel like a lonely person, I’ve always had people fighting for my attention. Whether it’s my parents or a group of friends, someone always wants me in the foreground of the picture. Social dynamics always left me as the leader in groups of friends from kindergarten all the way into adulthood, which is just funny because I’m the most indecisive person I know. I couldn’t make a decision to save my life. Futaba, my adoptive sister, calls it only-child syndrome. I call it bullshit. She calls me a pussy. Life goes on. I know the real reason; I just don’t like to acknowledge it. It makes me feel grossly superior in a way I don’t intend. Like somehow my subconscious has convinced itself that I’m better than anyone I meet so I must act this way—I soon expect my Tyler Durden-esque personality to appear and pull a gun to my head.</p><p>Why do I feel the need to mirror everyone around me?</p><p>Therapy I’ve stopped paying for told me it was about validation and wanting to feel accepted, that my parents dragged me so far into the throes of their marriage that I feel as if I am still to blame. I need everyone to like me, to be happy, that I try to emulate their behaviours so critically, predetermine what they want me to say, so as to make it impossible for confrontation to occur. It kind of fucked me up, hearing that. Have I always been so unhappy with myself that I have to reflect? Maybe my sadness, my déjà vu theory, was just a very heightened case of empathy. It sounds nicer when I say it like that—I’m <em>empathic.</em> I can hold your hand and be your failing marriage. I can be your cheating girlfriend. I can be your bowel cancer. You can love and I’ll be so pretty but stick around long enough, look too close and you’ll realise I’ve shattered your rear view mirror.</p><p>Maybe it is just about my mom and dad. Those are always the answers to the world’s biggest questions, right? What’s for dinner? Mom. What’s bugging you? Dad. How about that nondescript baseball team? MomandDad. I think sometimes I’m looking for my mom everywhere I go. She didn’t die; she’s just lounging in Barbados. A car didn’t hit her; she took a flight to Milan. It’s almost that time of year so the ache in my chest makes sense. This is that time-travel again, reminding me my mother’s time is up somewhere, someplace, soon.</p><p>I get as far as the promenade before deciding I don’t want to hit the sand. I sit on a bench and overlook the waves and I think I have never felt so cynical in my whole life. And I think: maybe these sad days are just the real me. See how indecisive I am? I write in my little notepad that I pack for work, I pretend I am a real fancy writer, I write things like unmirrored. Irreflected. Nonexistent words that still have feeling. I write about the ocean and how big and deep and stupid it is. I write that home is people, places and things. We rarely think of home numerically.</p><p>9:33 AM. 713 to Yokosuka. 63 BPM.</p><p>Feel malnourished. Is malnourished a feeling?</p><p>Maybe you’re too young to really think of home so vastly yet, and not young in the sense of age but young in the sense of soul. In the sense of how tired you’ve yet become. Home is where your parents are or where your grandparents grew. Home is your best friend and home is the bus seat you always choose. Home is your laundromat. Home is routine, your pet and your favourite song that you always come back to. Maybe I’m all of these things and less than these things, but Yokosuka is déjà vu—and not sad déjà vu, but real déjà vu. Yokosuka has suddenly gained meaning. I am so very jittery today, though. This could mean anything. Caffeine withdrawals. A wave growing taller, taller still on the horizon. This morning while brushing my teeth I noticed a second toothbrush by my sink which isn’t concerning but it didn’t make sense. On a good day it took me 45 minutes to buy a new one—I never had spares hanging around. It was a trait from my dad that mum could never combat with her skillful budget shopping; he bought one of everything and used them until he no longer could. He took pride in his one pair of shoes, one pair of socks and single toothbrush. While I wasn’t as extravagant with it as he was, I usually didn’t buy doubles of the small things.</p><p>Did I mention the toothbrush was thoroughly used? Whoever was brushing their teeth with this must have had serious issues, the bristles were that bent.</p><p>On the beach, a slip of green catches my eye. A man stands inches from the water with his scarf flicked over his shoulder and his shiny shoes sinking into the sand. They’re probably expensive, what with how shiny they are. He looks dressed for a funeral or high school debate. I note this down. A gorgeous man in his green scarf. I could write a new journal here, twist him into whatever cultural bystander I wanted him to be. Perhaps he was the son of a local innkeeper, maybe even a tortured widow who sought his true love from the shore where she had violently drowned in the sea. Maybe he wasn’t even gorgeous. I can’t really tell, but his hair is long so it’s a safe bet.</p><p>(“Oh, so you’d bone Knuckles, huh?” Futaba taunts in my ear. “The Predator? Mel Gibson in Braveheart? They have long hair.”</p><p>“I’m talking fucking Sephiroth or Thor. Why do you have to twist me into something I’m not?”</p><p>“I know exactly what you are, Amamiya Ren.”)</p><p>(Please, please tell me.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The beach grows as cold and uninspiring as I expected it to so when the man leaves, so do I. A home-owned diner is the only place with their doors open this early in the afternoon and the doorway is so low that I have to duck my head as I walk in. It immediately smells like the broths my mom would have boiling over the stove for days, the house steadily inhaling the smell of marrow and fennel, too. I order the special and with that first sip, it doesn’t even matter that I have a few chipped crowns and, as a result, very sensitive teeth. It doesn’t matter that there’s calcium building up behind my canine and most definitely a crack in one of my molars. It really doesn’t matter. I sink into the leather booth seat as I imagine one would sink into the ocean. Maybe some of that sadness sinks away with me.</p><p>A flash of green. Green. Mr. Green taking a seat across from me and sliding off his green scarf and placing a green book, newly purchased, onto the table. Mr. Green hailing the waitress. Mr. Green smiling. Mr. Green will now be a permanent fixture in the boring novella of my life because he is pretty, and because I am simple, and because he gives me a polite nod, and I look down as if I saw nothing at all.</p><p>He orders a green tea.</p><p>The broth becomes decidedly less awesome as I down spoonful after spoonful of it. I chew at one of the noodles with little interest. I check the time, but really I’m discreetly looking at Mr. Green.</p><p>Then again, nobody wants a mirror.</p><p>I look away.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The train ride home is a firm hiding, a big needle to my metaphorical bubble. It’s like remembering you have dozens of emails to reply to because you’re always so anxious that you just put them off for months and months.</p><p>Oh god. I have <em>dozens </em>of emails to reply to.</p><p>The train’s fuller than it was when I arrived, but it’s to be expected. It’s getting late and tourists want to crash, commuters want to go home, lazy fucks have fake places to be and writers have since found their muse. I’m not sure where I fit into the equation.</p><p>I feel looser than I did this morning, but it’s not a good feeling. I feel like I’ve washed in with the tide I refused to admire. The smell of salt has inched into my clothes and my feet feel damp in my socks—I didn’t even go near the sand but somehow it’s gotten into my hair. The day feels annoyingly unfinished and I can’t be bothered even flicking through my phone. Down at my notebook, I trace the same circle in my margin over and over again, and the dulling light of the sky makes the amber of passing streetlights glow like beacons on the page. Everything feels normal in this moment. The train walls are grey, the seats are blue and it’s cold enough with the air-conditioners on that I worry briefly about the mother and child a few rows down.</p><p>And then, Green.</p><p>“Excuse me”, he says, and he’s carrying a briefcase with his scarf tucked into his buttoned coat, a takeaway coffee in hand. Pretty, pretty smile. I wonder if he practices it. “Do you mind if I sit here?”</p><p>I’ve counted everyone within eyeshot (the six businessmen, the teenagers, the mother and child and some elderly) and I do sympathise with him but I don’t understand his reasoning. The bigger question is why would you move from your seat fifteen minutes into a train ride? I would have sat next to the 16 year-old playing on a retro GameBoy—it’s kids like that you can trust. They always have the smart, life-saving idea in the movie.</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>His smile becomes prettier, if possible, and he sets his things down before sitting a seat over from me. He has long legs, a nice suit. I didn’t know much about suits. He offers a gloved hand to me and I shake it once, awkwardly.</p><p>“Akechi Goro”, he introduces.</p><p>“Ren”, I reply. “You were at the beach, right?”</p><p>“Ah, you were the man on the promenade. You could see me from that far away?”</p><p>“You have a really bright scarf.” It kind of looks like pea soup.</p><p>“It hasn’t been the best day for a beach visit, I’ll admit.” He gives the sky outside a short glance. No shit, it’s winter. He looks at me again. “You’re not going to make a joke?”</p><p>“Uh—sorry?”</p><p>“<em>Akechi Goro?</em>” he emphasises. “Akechi <em>Korogō? </em>The detective? He has that nemesis, the fiend with twenty faces.”</p><p>Pray for the illiterate literaries.</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know that one.”</p><p>“Really?” He seems upset about it. “It’s quite the classic.”</p><p>“You must get it a lot then.”</p><p>“Yes, I do.”</p><p>With the way he’s acting, I have half the mind to ask him if he’d prefer we restart our conversation and I open with that: a wisecrack about his name. Maybe I could bring him in close and say, “<em>I’ve got twenty faces but you’re the one that I want”.</em> Hopefully he likes Grease, too.</p><p>Instead, I blurt out the worst ball of shitty sad-day déjà vu word vomit. Say that five times fast.</p><p>“Yeah, I was just into fishing when I was a kid. Not really into fishing, but my dad fished sometimes so I wanted to bond with him. It wasn’t even real fishing; it was river or swamp fishing. When he wasn’t looking I’d pretend to be Captain Hook with his fishing gear but one time I ended up slipping and all the fish he’d caught got dumped back in because I kicked the bucket over.” Goro laughs.</p><p>“Was he mad?”</p><p>I smile. Yeah, he locked me out of the house until mom got home.</p><p>“Only a little.”</p><p>Mom was spending the night at her sister’s an hour away.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I end up asking about his coffee. When you’re desperately lonely with little knowledge on things that are interesting enough to have a conversation about, you do tend to regress into what you know best.</p><p>“I can already tell it’s the most under-brewed, grainy coffee in the world.”</p><p>“Don’t tell me”, Goro drawls, but there’s a twitch in his cheek that I’ve learned means he’s taking the piss, “you’ve got a sixth sense for these things.”</p><p>“I actually worked as a barista for, like, 7 years. I was also a bartender and a waiter. Briefly a florist. There was a stunt with a—”</p><p>“You don’t like to be idle?”</p><p>“Do you like your coffee weak?”</p><p>His smile is the same four sharp lines you find in the curve of a crooked finger.</p><p>“The maid café in Akihabara is much worse. I think one of the maids actually spit into my coffee when I asked her to replace the original.”</p><p>“Hey, I worked there too.”</p><p>“Not at a butler café?”</p><p>“It was a favour for a friend. Trust me, these legs look great in a pair of stockings.”</p><p>“I trust you.” Isn’t he sweet? If he’s emotionally unavailable I’m going to jump out of this train. I like the way he keeps smiling at me, the way he holds my eye like he’s in a job interview. “So you live near Akihabara?”</p><p>“Yongen-Jaya, you?”</p><p>“Shibuya. My co-worker once mentioned there being a good café in Yongen.” Home turf.</p><p>“That must be my dad’s place.” Wonder if I need to specify this is a different dad to fishing dad or if that’s too deep for a first meeting. “I literally live in the apartment above. It’s good a place, though. He’s got this whole minds-eye thing where he knows what kind of coffee you want the second you walk in. If it’s anything with more than a teaspoon of sugar, he’ll kick you out.” Sojiro’s a purist like that. “I worked part-time with him and my palm-reader friend came by one time for dinner and they totally tried to psych each other out.”</p><p>“Does that mean you can look at me and know what I want, too?”</p><p>Weirdly, I felt shy. I can imagine myself flopping onto my bed when I get home, taking out another notebook and another pen, kicking my feet into the air and scrawling in perfect letters—<em>Dear Diary, today I was shy. Today I met a boy.</em></p><p>“If you’re lucky”, I tell him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There are people you just <em>know</em> the minute you meet them. They immediately fit into a particular mould no matter how much they might protest. Goro is both this and not this. A slow burn, if you will. A bee sting that waits a half hour before letting you know you’re going into anaphylactic shock—better get the fucking Epi-Pen out, huh?</p><p>Goro is infuriating. The only thing he’s good at is interrogating me and saying things that make me think he’s saying something when really he’s not said anything at all. There’s no real answer to anything he poses, but there’s underlying meanings and assumptions to meanings that he expects you to pick apart and solve. Goro is a variable with the power to change whatever he wants around him. There is little hope for whatever relationship happens here, we both know.</p><p>He’s moved into the seat beside me. Our opposite legs are crossed so our feet bump. When he talks, he leans in, so I lean in too.</p><p><em>Dear Diary, I like a boy and a boy likes me.</em> He yawns in that hidden way people do when they know they can’t sleep: the shoulder roll, the exaggerated blink.</p><p>“If you want, I can wake you up when we get to Shibuya”, I suggest. “You look a little tired.” Really he looks annoyed.</p><p>“Isn’t it rude to tell people they look tired?”</p><p>“I don’t know. Do I look tired?”</p><p>
  <em>“Extremely.”</em>
</p><p>Oh heart of mine.</p><p>“Maybe you have a point”, I concede. “I slept pretty badly last night.”</p><p>“Bad dreams?”</p><p>“Maybe, I don’t remember.”</p><p>He lets out a quiet hum, his smile a little strange, teeth too sharp, expression just the largest amount experimental, if you could imagine that. If I tried to say the things I thought people wanted to hear, then Goro most certainly said the things that would make people crack the shits.</p><p>“They say that some dreams are real”, he starts. He’s been tracing the lip of his empty coffee cup for 10 minutes. “In some middle-eastern cultures, when someone dies in your dream it only extends their life in reality.”</p><p>“I’m sure I’d remember if someone died in my dream.”</p><p>Goro laughs, like it’s actually funny. His laugh is a high laugh, caught in his throat and cloyingly thick. I can only compare it to coins clattering onto the floor or a gurgling stomach sickness. Up and down.</p><p>“I believe the human mind is both incredibly complex and out of all of our depths while also being stupidly simple. Turmoil in your life translates to your dreams, your subconscious working through your issues in order for you to solve them or find the answer when you wake. When you like someone, you dream of loving them, of kissing them, of having sex with them. Truly, I don’t think it’s so hard to believe that a life may be extended if you dream of its death.” He leans away from me, yawning again and stretching. His cologne smells sweet. “But dreams don’t really matter, do they? They’re not real. I can’t hold them in my hand. It’s just our brains with nothing better to do than dwell.”</p><p>“But that’s already what a dream was.”</p><p>He shrugs, serene.</p><p>“I’m just saying a lot of people believe different things.”</p><p>I look at Goro and I think: <em>Does this make me Frankenstein’s bride?</em> </p><p>“Why do you do that?” I ask him. That sharp smile is back.</p><p>“Do what?”</p><p>“You make a foundation for an opinion, dress it up like it’s <em>your</em> opinion, but then you go and plant a bunch of different perspectives into the mix and make it seem like the original opinion was nothing. It’s like you don’t want me to get to know you.”</p><p>“Does it annoy you?” he asks, delighted.</p><p>“Does it annoy me? I hate it. Can’t we talk without you wanting to walk circles around me?” <em>Can’t we talk like normal human beings so I can get a read on you?</em> He laughs again, and it’s a little giddier. Washing machine rumbles, dryer beeps, maybe…</p><p>He grins. “I like you better when you’re not thinking of what I want to hear. To be honest, I wanted to speak to you at the diner. I saw you writing and wanted to know what it was about.”</p><p>“Common curiosity”, I say weakly. He pauses to think.</p><p>“I suppose. So what were you writing about? At the beach, too.”</p><p>“I’m a travel journalist, it’s really nothing deep.”</p><p>“I’m sure that’s not true.” He says it teasingly, in the tone of a chiding teacher or parent. “Everything’s an art of its own. You must travel a lot. I’ve always wanted to get away.”</p><p>“Flights have been cheaper this year.” He gives me a look that says: <em>we both know that’s not what I meant. </em>“I’ve never really been good with words. I always wanted to be an author but I could never get an idea down on paper and go through with it. I didn’t think anyone would really want to listen to what I had to say, anyway.” There’s that stare again: his interview eyes. “Travel journalism was an easy out”, I confess. “People want to read lavish descriptions about places they’ll never go and I get to run away for a while.”</p><p>“You any good?” I scoff and bump my elbow against his arm.</p><p>“Good enough. What do you work as?”</p><p>“A prosecutor”, he tells me quite frankly. “I was meant to be at a court detailing today but instead I came to a beach.”</p><p>“Weird. Aren’t they really strict about days off?”</p><p>“Oh, yeah,” he nods. “I’m fucked tomorrow.”</p><p>We laugh too loud and a man down the aisle shoots us a dirty look. Goro snickers into his scarf. The train jostles our shoulders together.</p><p>“Okay”, I whisper, still giggling, “Okay. What would you be if you could be anything else?”</p><p>His cheeks are bright red, his lips stretched over his teeth and his eyes crinkled with crow’s feet.</p><p>“You first”, he demands.</p><p>“Famous rodeo man with a ranch in Texas and a cool bolo tie.” He barks a laugh, slapping his hand over his mouth. “Stop it, <em>stop</em>—I wanted to be a cowboy <em>so bad</em> when I was a kid, Goro, I’m not kidding—”</p><p>“Singer”, he tells me breathlessly. I’ll never forget how he looks at me, I promise you now, because he’s so warm against me and I’ve seen so little of the real him and he’s seen so little of the real me but it feels so fucking right. “I always wanted to be a singer but I was never any good.”</p><p>“It’s what made you happy, though.”</p><p>The way he looks at me feels real.</p><p>“It did.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I get off with him at Shibuya and he doesn’t protest, only looking up at the sky when we exit onto Central Street.</p><p>“I was going to ask if you wanted to go for a cup of coffee.”</p><p>“It’s late”, I understand. The cinema near the chemist paints us both a glaring yellow and shops are packing up for the day.</p><p>“Tomorrow”, he suggests. “I don’t have to be in at work until 10.”</p><p>We share a smile. The karaoke club nearby is brimming with teenagers dodging curfew.</p><p>“Sure. Breakfast?”</p><p>“You can pick me up.” He sets his briefcase between his feet and smoothly pulls a pen out from his breast pocket. He takes my hand without asking and writes his number and address in small letters. I feel like a celebrity has just put their signature on me—I’ll never wash this hand! He looks at me through his lashes and I try a smile.</p><p>“I guess I have to be the one to call first.”</p><p>“Of course.” He lets go of my hand and replaces his pen, picking up his briefcase. “And if you happen to do it after midnight, you can wish me a happy Valentine’s Day, too.”</p><p>I’m drawn back into his space. I want us as close as we were on that train.</p><p>“Happy early Valentine’s.”</p><p>He takes a step back, a half turn, and smiles at me over his shoulder. It’s as bright as the cinema lights.</p><p>“That’s just cheating.”</p><p>We don’t really say goodbye, but we go our separate ways home. I like that.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Strangers do have a habit of talking to me. Not because I’m an approachable person, I don’t think, but because I always tend to linger on my own when no one I know is nearby me. The chatty ones love people lingering unless you’re a bum. Well, unless-unless they have some sort of saviour complex, then to them you’re a cheque they can right or a new pair of shoes they can buy. I say all of this because at the start, I’m not all surprised that some random girl comes to my car window while I’m waiting outside Goro’s apartment.  I’d met Goro yesterday under similar circumstances. I was pretty ready for the <em>hi, hello, lovely day, just waiting, not interested in charity at the moment, thank you, gotta go.</em></p><p>Here is the surprise.</p><p>“You’re not meant to be here.”</p><p>Her lips are chapped in the sort of way that means you haven’t been using your lip-balm diligently enough and think spit is a fine substitute—repeat it with me, kids, spit is not a fine substitute for anything! Her skin is all blotchy, too. Her hair’s the kind of cherry red you see on boxes of dye in the convenience mart and she has at least thirty letters under her arm. “I haven’t—why are you here?”</p><p>I shift in my seat, wishing my window were raised. “I’m waiting for a friend. Sorry, do I know you?”</p><p>I most certainly do not know her and only say it because she seems to know me, but my question makes her jolt in place, her eyes widening in something like surprise but more clinically shocked. Instead of replying, she darts off to her car across the street and drives away. Not a minute later, Goro swings the door open to the passenger side and sits in beside me, sending me a coy smile.</p><p>“You look nice.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank u for reading!</p><p>— tnevmucric.carrd.co</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. yongen-jaya</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You think there’s someone out in the world for you no matter what you do or what happens. This is the only unsure thing in life that feels sure. No matter who you are, how strange you’ve become, whether you’ve done awful things or not, there is someone who will stand with you. There is someone in the world that will deal with the problems you can’t deal with alone and who will tell you the truth when all you want to do is lie.</p><p>His car is warm. For the first time in his life he feels like he can’t hide. He is 6 foot, living misery and is tangled in his seat belt, sobbing so hard that it feels like his lungs are going to dislodge. Break-ups are fun that way. Remember—there’s still someone out in the world for you.</p><p>He pulls the keys out of the ignition and throws them at the dash, launching into another fit of sobs.</p><p>These are the normal man’s version of catastrophic events. You wonder if you’ll die of a broken heart, you’ll listen to <em>Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word</em> until you realise you haven’t showered in 4 days and you’ve listened to the song so many times you’ve probably made it go platinum all on its own. These catastrophic events change us from one moment to the next. You will never return to who you were before this, so be happy with how you’ve ended up. You’ll be different tomorrow. Hell, you’ll be different today.</p><p>Nobody aside from Sojiro is in Leblanc this late, so Ren doesn’t feel too much shame slipping in disheveled with snot running from his nose. Sojiro’s halfway to pulling on his coat but he stops, eyebrows rising pointedly.</p><p>“What’s wrong with you?”</p><p>Ren collapses into one of the booths, wrangling off his jacket and slipping off his shoes in one movement. He mumbles something that might sound like ‘hay fever’. After parenting two teenagers simultaneously who were as temperamental as a kettle in a coffeehouse, Sojiro knew better than to ask twice. He tucked his hat under his arm and patted Ren’s back.</p><p>“There’s leftover curry in the fridge if you want it. Am I leaving the door open?”</p><p>“Yeah”, Ren muttered. “Thanks.”</p><p>“Alright. Tell Goro I said hi—and don’t stay up too late. Happy Valentine’s.” Leblanc’s bell rings.</p><p>Goro would not be visiting tonight.</p><p>Hazily, Ren dragged himself upstairs. Morgana meowed from the counter of the kitchenette but Ren passed by without a word. He folded his jacket over his chair and closed the blinds. In his back pocket was a pill canister with a single pill inside: chartreuse, with a bold ‘T’ stamped into it, about the same size as his fingernail. The canister was one of those cylindrical orange ones you saw in the movies, as someone was about to overdose on Xanax or get high on ADHD meds.</p><p>He fell back onto his mattress and stared at the ceiling for a short few moments before wriggling the canister out of his jeans and holding it up to the light.</p><p>He swallowed the pill dry.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Jesus <em>fuck</em>.”</p><p>A red-haired woman trips on a pair of shoes in Leblanc’s entryway, kicking them aside and hopping to place the large box in her arms on the nearest table. With a huff she pulls the door open again, a blond man backing in with a box trolley. “Be careful with that”, she hisses when he drags it over the threshold. “That equipment costs more than your treadmill.”</p><p>“Fuck off”, he replies. “I’m doing you a favour carrying all of this shit.”</p><p>There’s an awkward struggle as they make their way up the stairs and some readjusting to push open the door. Walking in, they find Ren fast asleep on his side with Morgana sprawled at his feet. The redhead puts her boxes down on the sofa and wipes her hands on her pyjama pants—Star Wars ones from 1999, hand-me-downs from a friend who could no longer fit them. The blond is strangely contemplative.</p><p>“This feels so wrong… I wish I didn’t show him that letter.”</p><p>“Don’t blame yourself”, she replies. “Anyway, it’s his choice in the end. Help me drag his desk over to the foot of the bed and then you’re good to go—just leave the downstairs door open, I’ve got someone coming in to help me monitor his vitals, she’s just running late.” She catches his reluctance, pausing with her hands around the desk chair. “Look, it was his choice and we’re going to have to accept that. It’s still going to be Ren.”</p><p>“Except he’ll be missing four years of his fucking life”, he spits sarcastically. “Yeah, that’s totally Ren.”</p><p>“They won’t be <em>missing</em>, just edited. Fuck, Ryuji, are you going to help or not? Because you can just leave.”</p><p>Eventually, Ryuji helps her move the desk.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He feels like the foam-spreaders between Ann’s toes. Have you ever felt that way? Like somebody’s toe-spreaders? Her toes aren’t even a nice colour tonight and she’s used it on the three of them—<em>Lie-Lac</em>, what a shitty name. He says all of this out loud and Ann just casts him a dubious look. She’s sat herself on the footstool by the TV, feet stretched out on the low coffee table as she waits for her toes to dry. A bowl of udon is in her lap, the spoon halfway to her mouth.</p><p>“You’re a bitch tonight,” she answers. “I invite you to my home, offer to make you dinner—”</p><p>“You reheated the tupperware my mom brought over”, Ryuji says through a mouthful. His toes are drying on the coffee table, too. Ren’s chosen to dry his against Ryuji’s thigh as he sinks lower and lower into the couch, taking up a third of the base cushions.</p><p>“That’s not the point”, Ann says, “I used my last face mask on you guys.” It’s true; all of their faces are avocado-green right now. “The least you could do is thank me.”</p><p>“Wait, dude—” Ren looks up from his slumped position to see Ryuji frowning at him. “Why Ann’s toe-spreaders and not mine?” Ren’s head hits the armrest with a thump, making Ann squawk out a warning to be careful, to not dirty anything.  Ren wants to shove his green, tear-stained cheek against her couch in retaliation. He says this, too.</p><p>“<em>Bitch</em>”, she repeats, writing it in the air with one Lie-Lac nail. “You ruined my towels the last time you were here, you’re not dirtying my couch, too.”</p><p>Ann’s couch is neon pink denim with bejeweled accents. Ren’s pretty sure it’s as bad as it’s going to get.</p><p>“Ryuji’s put crap all over your Spice Girls sweater”, he points out. Also true: Posh Spice is no more.</p><p>“I didn’t like her anyway”, Ann sniffs, and goes back to eating her re-heated udon.</p><p>Successfully depressed, Ren stares at Ann’s chandelier. The sound of <em>Down With Love</em> on the TV doesn’t even entice him and it is generally a well-known mood-improver for one Amamiya Ren. With a bubble in his throat, he feels himself start up again. The stages of grief have never been so real.</p><p>“So, I went to his office.”</p><p>Ryuji and Ann groan in unison.</p><p>“Why did you do <em>that?</em>” Ann questions loudly. “What did I even <em>teach</em> you in high school? You don’t want to be the needy girl.”</p><p>“Maybe I <em>do</em> want to be the needy girl”, Ren protests. “Some people <em>love</em> needy girl.”</p><p>“It’s been three weeks and how many messages have you left him?”</p><p>“A few...” On screen, Ewan McGregor is shirtless and Ren remains unenticed. “… A day.” Ryuji calmly pats his ankle.</p><p>“He’s not into needy girls.”</p><p>“Okay, but hear me out. I went to his office because I wanted to at least talk to him and apologise for what I said, you know? So I went there, and fucking <em>nothing.</em> Less than nothing. He acted like he’d never even met me before, can you believe that?”</p><p>There is a certain pause that Ren doesn’t notice at first. Ann pulls her feet off of the table and crosses one leg over the other, overly-careful.</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“Exactly what I said. I told him I was sorry and that I wanted to work things out, wanted to at least be on good terms, but he looked at me all weird and said I must have confused him with someone else.” The tears started up again, dripping green onto his neck. Ryuji dutifully reached for the tissue box. “I mean, I know he can be an asshole sometimes and give the silent treatment when he’s mad but he’s not like <em>this.</em> He wouldn’t fucking gaslight me.” Ann grabs a few tissues and mops up his chin and collarbone.</p><p>“Honey, maybe you should just take this as a sign to move on. Sometimes these things don’t work out.” Hey, there was worse advice she could have given. Ren cries a little harder.</p><p>“I don’t want to do that. Our fight wasn’t even—I didn’t <em>mean </em>what I said. It was just one of those high-tension moments. I wanted to hurt him as much as he was hurting me.” That’s the reality of being close to someone, though, isn’t it? Everything’s always heightened and over-thought. Saying ‘drive safe’ has turned into a declaration of love rather than a nicety. “I didn’t mean it.” Ryuji scoffs, and both Ann and Ren look at him sharply.</p><p>“What?” Ren asks just as Ann says, <em>“Don’t.”</em> Ryuji levels Ann with an annoyed look and gestures somewhere behind to them. “This is messed up and you have to agree. We need to show him.”</p><p>“She literally told us <em>not</em> to, you idiot.”</p><p>“He’ll find out on his own sooner or later—”</p><p>“Futaba said—”</p><p>“Both of you shut the fuck up.” Ren sits up against the armrest, bewildered. “What are you talking about? And what does Futaba have to do with this? Did you guys talk to Goro or something?”</p><p>“Exact opposite”, Ryuji mutters. Ann glares and smacks his shin with the remote; the DVD has paused on Renee Zellwegger’s upset face.</p><p>“If you show him I’ll tell your mom you had sex in her kitchen.”</p><p>“You wouldn’t—“</p><p>“Show me <em>what?</em>” Ren demands. Ryuji stands, toe-spreaders and all, and darts to the bookshelf on the back wall of Ann’s lounge. She makes a lunge for his pant leg but is unsuccessful. He pulls an envelope out from under a stack of magazines and leans over the back of the couch, tossing it into Ren’s lap. TAKEMI CLINIC is in bold font in the corner and he holds it unsurely. This is a catastrophic moment in the making.</p><p>“What am I meant to do with this?”</p><p>“Just read it,” Ryuji prompts.</p><p>
  <em>To Whom It May Concern:</em>
</p><p>
  <em><span class="u">AKECHI GORO</span> has made the decision to have <span class="u">AMAMIYA REN</span> removed from his memory. Please do not approach <span class="u">AKECHI GORO</span> with any associations of the aforementioned. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Regards, Takemi Clinic YJ</em>
</p><p>This is a catastrophic moment alight. The moment would be funnier if anyone at all was laughing. It’d be a great <em>gotcha!</em> moment if Ren didn’t happen to feel a wave of nausea in his stomach. He read the letter again. This was a sick joke to a guy on a pink denim couch wearing an avocado mask.</p><p>“Is this a joke?” he had to ask. Ann sighed and placed her hand on his knee, squeezing once.</p><p>“Ren…” No. No, no, no. He knows that tone of voice. That tone is time-travel. That tone is <em>your mother’s dead.</em> <em>Your pet died. You burnt your toast. Grandma went to heaven. Elvis has left the building. Elton John’s stopped touring.</em></p><p>“This has to be a joke”, he croaks. “Seriously, don’t fuck with me. I am really not susceptible to a good joke right now. I’ll cry.” Ryuji massages his shoulders in a way that should be comforting but it just feels shit, shit, shit. He shrugs him away and rubs roughly at his eyes and he smells like fucking avocado and oatmeal. “Tell me you’re lying. <em>Please</em>.” Please.</p><p>“We thought it was a joke as well but Futaba got into contact with us a couple of hours later”, Ann explains quietly. “She works for the clinic and does the whole… procedure, I guess. Baby, I know it hurts to hear but you really can’t do anything about it.” Why does crying have to hurt so much? It triggers every painful thing in your body and amplifies it by ten—suddenly there’s so much water leaking out from your eyes that you could fill the bathtub and drown yourself in it. Wouldn’t that be a way to go? Ann cups his face, puts the letter aside (it’s covered in green tear stains, now.) “I’m sorry”, she whispers. “I’m sorry, I know this hurts.”</p><p>All Ren thinks about is how Goro looked the last time they properly spoke. His cheeks were so red; from the cold, from anger, Ren supposed it could have been both. Red. Universal sign for stop, danger ahead.</p><p>Just stop.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The idea that someone could make you forget any part of your life was practically like a water mirage in the desert or offering MDMA to an addict. Someone could stick their fingers in your brain, snap once, and re-calibrate your whole life. How terribly appealing. Commercialised, this clinic would make a mint.</p><p>The clinic is a hidden stairway by the Yongen cinema and grocer, weirdly enough. Imagine finding out that outside your bedroom window a cemetery had been there the whole time: this was like that. Posters lined the walls with opposing slogans; FORGET ME <em>NOT!</em> YOU ARE STILL ACCOUNTABLE FOR YOUR PAST ACTIONS! WE DO NOT ERASE 9<sup>TH</sup> GRADE SPEECHES! A few patients waited in chairs along the length of the room. Some cried, some stared sadly at their hands. At the front desk, a red-haired woman spoke chirpily on the phone; her hair was the kind of red you saw on boxes of dye at the convenience mart. It was eerie, this clinic. Alive and dead at the same time, breathing with every breath Ren took. He hesitated in the entrance, wringing the letter in his hands. Devotion is such a double-edged sword. I will follow you to the ends of the Earth when I love you, and I will chase you there when I don’t. Love refuses you the comfort of breathing room.</p><p>“Here for an appointment, sir?”</p><p>Ren jumped. The girl had the phone pressed to her shoulder and was smiling kindly at him. “Uh, yeah, um…” he fumbled quickly to the desk, sliding the letter over to her and cringing at the stains on it. “I just wanted to ask about this?”</p><p>Her smile drops instantly. “Oh. What was your name?”</p><p>“Ren. Amamiya Ren.”</p><p>“If you could please take a seat Mr. Amamiya, the doctor will be right out to speak with you”, she said smoothly, gesturing to the free seat by the door. He did, and watched as she said a swift goodbye to whoever was on the other line before taking the letter and disappearing down the corridor. It must have taken less than a few seconds for a taller woman to appear, spiked heels on her feet and a dark choker around her neck. Her eye shadow was the colour of plums and she zeroed in on him immediately, offering a sincere bow of her head.</p><p>“Takemi Tae,” she introduced. “If you’d like to follow me, I’ve had Sumire clear my schedule for the next hour so we might discuss the situation.” Sumire—the redhead—smiled sweetly. Ren felt sort of compelled to return it.</p><p>Takemi’s office is bright and clear, an obvious contrast to her punk look. She settles at her desk and crosses her legs. The seat Ren takes is uncomfortably stiff. She takes a deep breath.</p><p>“I’d like to begin by apologising to you. You were never meant to see that letter.”</p><p>Ren reads a pamphlet by her side: COPING WITH YOUR LOVED ONES AMNESIA.</p><p>“So this is real?” She nods.</p><p>“I developed the procedure to aid with patients who had severe trauma which couldn’t be helped with therapy. It’s a rewiring of sorts—a mild form of brain damage towards the parts of your brain that the retain what, or who, you want to forget. It’s induced amnesia.”</p><p>“And he <em>did</em> that?” Takemi doesn’t react to the harshness of Ren’s words, but her eye does twitch.</p><p>“I’m afraid so. Mr. Amamiya, I would like you to know that I don’t encourage any of my patients with ‘regular’ issues to get the treatment. While I may offer it, I don’t condone it. I believe there are some things we have to experience as humans: the loss of a pet, for example. Many don’t go through with it in the end out of fear of losing humanity.”</p><p>“He did”, Ren repeats.</p><p>“Yes”, she agrees. “I am sorry.”</p><p>Dad said: fuck off, I’m busy. Mom said: count to ten, imagine yourself in a safe place, imagine the sky is clear above you.</p><p>“Why don’t you just send out emails or something?” Ren blurts angrily. “I’m sure there’s dozens of others like me who come in here looking for answers and you give them that same fucking speech. The again, it probably just gives you more business, right?” Mom said: temper, temper. Dad said: don’t make me get the belt. Anger inherited. Takemi is immune.</p><p>“Please don’t yell at me”, she states calmly. “I understand that this situation is stressful—”</p><p>“Stressful? Try fucking <em>insane</em>. You should be foolproof so dipshits like my friends don’t tell me when my boyfriend has decided to erase me from his memory!”</p><p>“Ex-boyfriend.”</p><p>Generally, dad slapped mom around silly. He used to tell Ren that his mom just made him too impulsive, made him damned crazy. She’s viral, he’d say. Ren could relate. Goro made him want to be sick forever.</p><p>“Can you at least tell me what he said?” Ren asks quietly. Takemi slides him the tissue box on her desk.</p><p>“I’m afraid that would be a breach of doctor-patient confidentiality. The only thing I can say is that Goro was not happy when he came here. He wanted to move on and he wanted it to be quick, like almost everyone who requests the procedure. He was very adamant to have it as soon as possible.”</p><p>“And can you do that for me?”</p><p>Takemi has the gall to blink, to pretend to be shocked.</p><p>“Mr. Amamiya—”</p><p>“Can you do it?”</p><p>The click of her heels on the gloss floor hid her sigh. She poked her head through the door and called for Sumire.</p><p>“Would you please bring the appropriate patient documents for Mr. Amamiya?”</p><p>“General procedure?” Sumire asks.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>How Futaba came about working for Takemi clinic wasn’t public knowledge but it wasn’t really <em>her</em> knowledge either. She was fresh out of uni and one of her professors had pulled her aside, asking her if she was interested in continuing work on cognition. Queue Takemi Tae’s doorstep. What all of it meant was that she’d been in near 5000 apartments around the city (some twice) wiping brains clean like they were dishes from dinner. They once had an insomniac who was incapable of forgetting a Mazda advert from the early 2000s and in just an hour slot he was back to well-rested nights. She explained all of this to Ren as he flitted in and out of his apartment, collecting seemingly random things from both Leblanc and his personals. She sat in the doorway with Morgana in her lap and her feet against the door frame. It was the afternoon when he finished up, dropping a black bin bag beside her and sitting down to bury his face in his arms. Their knees bumped, so she reached out and touched his. While she’d never felt the real need to offer comfort to him after years of understanding each other in a twin-like way, this felt the exception.</p><p>“So that’s all your shit?”</p><p>She never claimed to be great with comforting other people.</p><p>The bag is filled to the brim with mementos of Ren’s relationship with Goro. Photos, notebook pages, birthday cards and a very mint-condition looking vinyl that she might steal after they’re done. A strange sense of protectiveness hit her, then. It hurt to see him hurt, just like it hurt to see Goro talking to Takemi that first time. She looked at the bag again. How could four years be compiled into such a small volume? Futaba didn’t know.</p><p>“We were going to move in together”, Ren says, muffled. “I was always scared of fucking it up if we went too fast, but I wanted to do this for him. I knew how long he’d been waiting. Now it’s just…”</p><p>“This is everything”, Futaba surmises. Morgana jumps off of her lap and wanders towards the bed. Ren just nods, rubbing his eyes.</p><p>“You know, I have this memory of being in Perth a few months after Goro and I first met. I was writing about all of this shit that didn’t matter. Land, gentrification, this giant art installation they had in the city that looked nothing like a cactus even though it was meant to be. I wasn’t writing at all about the place how I should have been, I just felt lazy. In love, I guess. I was passing the time before it was time to call Goro again. I went to this upstairs café that overlooked one of the shopping streets and it all reminded me of him. I could see how the city had blended heritage and modern buildings—even how the graffiti incorporated itself into it. Fucking… fucking food scraps that the pigeons were fighting over. It must be a side effect of love to act like that. To turn meaningless things into something. I thought that one day I’d be rolling lint off of my sweater and still thinking how much an insignificant ball of fluff reminded me of Goro. And I was fine with that.”</p><p>“You’re sure you want to do this? Just because he did, doesn’t mean—”</p><p>“But it does, doesn’t it? I can’t know everything I know and keep going. I just can’t. He didn’t want me anymore so I don’t want him.” Ren reached out and held her hand tightly. “You’ll be there, right? You… nothing’s going to go wrong with you there.”</p><p>Futaba stays silent, but holds his hand as tight as she can. They sit listening to the flood of commuters outside coming home from a long day until he’s ready to leave.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I just wanted to say, it’s going to be okay.”</p><p>Ren blinks tiredly at Sumire in the hallway. Her hands fumble against each other, nails a bright blue colour that didn’t really suit her. She was pretty, Ren thought, but seemed constantly in over her head.</p><p>“Dr. Takemi’s the best at what she does”, Sumire continues, reaching out to touch his arm. “You’ll be very safe.”</p><p>People had been doing that a lot, lately. Just touching him. Maybe they thought they could soak up whatever pain he was wearing on his sleeve and throw it away. Mom said: imagine your mind is a computer screen, click on the little file filled with all of the things you don’t like and drag it into the trash. Ren supposed that’s what they were doing here: click, drag, delete.</p><p>“Sumi, give him some space.”</p><p>At the end of the hallway, Futaba looks every bit 27, if 27 meant somber and tired. Her lab coat was crinkled, hair messily tied, glasses skewed; this was Ren’s sister but at the same time not at all. Sumire let go of his arm and Futaba gestured at the door.</p><p>“Everything’s set”, she said. “You ready?”</p><p>The answer to <em>‘are you ready?’</em> is always no.</p><p>“Yeah”, he replies. “What do you need me to do?”</p><p>“For the purposes of the procedure, Dr. Takemi will need you to undergo an interview recorded on tape”, Sumire explains.</p><p>“And long will that take?”</p><p>“You sort of dictate that, don’t you?” Futaba nods her head back. “Come on, she’s waiting.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Interview must have been code for interrogation. The room had no windows, one bright light, two chairs and a table with a small recording device in the middle. Ren felt cuffed even with his hands on his knees. It would be easier if Takemi shone a lamp in his face and slammed her fist on the table—<em>tell me everything you know, kid, and don’t leave out the nitty gritty!</em></p><p>Cops wait for the tension to rise in your shoulders before asking you the first question; more often than not, you’ll pop.</p><p>“In your own time, tell me how you met Goro.”</p><p>If he ever had time, he’d only been wasting it.</p><p>“It was my friend’s 24<sup>th</sup> birthday party. There’s a beach in Yokosuka she used to go to as a kid so we decided to go down there for a bonfire. I thought it was just going to be our regular group but she invited her childhood friend, Goro. Everyone had met him before me at other hangouts but we’d never met each other—either I was out of the country or he was busy with work. We just sort of ended up clicking. We talked for hours, forgot we were meant to be celebrating Haru’s birthday and stayed longer at the beach than anyone else did. He drove me home.” Ren can remember in fine detail how much he’d spoken about himself that night—Goro was always good at that: making him talk. “I didn’t fall in love with him straight away. Or maybe I did, and I was just slow to realise it. He was my best friend before he was my boyfriend. He knew everything about me and he loved me anyway. It was inevitable that I’d fall for that.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Futaba uncaps a purple sharpie and draws a star on each of his temples. One of her headphones is dangling down the front of her shirt and Ren can barely hear the sound of Queen playing: <em>all dead, all dead. </em>She adjusts a headset over him that looks like something those people afraid of the governments’ influence would wear, a sieve with a colander strapped to it and a hefty amount of tinfoil.</p><p>“Comfortable?” Ren squints up at it doubtfully.</p><p>“I feel like I’m at the dentist.”</p><p>“Weird dentist.” Futaba flicks a short switch and blue light beams in his periphery, quickly angled away to point at the sharpie stars. Any other light in the room has been dimmed, save for a few lamps. “Alright, now pay attention since you’re the fuckwit in the chair.”</p><p>“Futaba”, Takemi intones. She straightens up imperceptibly and tries a charming smile.</p><p>“Sorry, doc. Anyway, you remember doing mind-maps in school? The stuff you’ve brought in today is going to help us create a map like that of Goro in your mind.” She takes a random item from the bin bag and waves it around. “Say this key-chain. It connects to a memory, which connects to a very particular part of your brain. From there we can pinpoint and later erase it. You’re going to focus on the items laid in front of you so we can lay these points.”</p><p>“Those parts of your brain become a clean slate”, Takemi further explains. “Plain paper for new memories. It’s just as if you’ve naturally forgotten something. Tonight you’ll take a dosage of sleeping agent and Futaba will begin the procedure while you’re safely asleep.” She rolls over on her desk chair and pulls a tray around to sit in Ren’s lap—it almost feels like an airline flight. On the tray, she places another item from the bag. It’s a snow globe from New Zealand broken in half. The mountain inside of it is exposed and slick with glitter. A tiny man hikes to the top.</p><p>“All right, Ren”, Takemi says softly. “Focus on the snow globe.”</p><p>
  <em>You are running. You are running through a hallway where beams of light shoot to kill and the sky is in a forever-seascape above, completely unreachable. Are you beneath or below the water? You want to drown. You don’t want air. You want to keep going—deeper, deeper, deeper. Until the sand trips you up. You want to lose him the same way he lost you. You want him gone.</em>
</p><p>The man is climbing the mountain—it’s almost like he’s disappearing into the clouds.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank u for reading!</p><p>— tnevmucric.carrd.co</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. ren</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The bell above the door has been replaced since the first time Sumire ever came to Leblanc. It’s shinier, genuine gold, and feels cool between her fingers as she holds it, dampening the soft ring. She loved Leblanc. It was something about the atmosphere, about Futaba’s dad and the low hum of the TV, the rustle of the weekly crossword—Leblanc was something straight out of a movie. It was one of those hidden gems you read about in magazines and thought <em>hey, I should go into town and look for that place when I have the time.</em> Except you never have the time and you know that if you did, you wouldn’t bother, because all of those places advertised are overpriced and overrated and you don’t have the spare money to indulge in either. Slipping off her boots and tucking them under her arm, Sumire makes her way upstairs. Home blend, creamer, one sugar was Dr. Takemi’s usual order much to Sakura-san’s chagrin, but he still made a vegetarian curry for her when she came to eat. Sumire was always reminding her to eat, whether it be leaving a granola bar on her desk or handing her cute sliced fruit packs she’d picked up from the corner store on her way to work.</p><p>She knocks twice on the upper apartment door before opening it. Futaba leans back in her chair and sends her a cheesy grin; just past her, Ren is out cold.</p><p>“Come sit”, Futaba waves her in. “You see Ryuji on your way out?”</p><p>Sumire drops her boots in the corner and drags a short lounge seat over to Futaba’s side, Futaba immediately leaning up against her, cheek pressing against Sumire’s collar.</p><p>“No, he must have gone the other way to me. You’re sure he can’t hear us?”</p><p>Futaba snaps her fingers twice in Ren’s general direction.</p><p>“Nope. You know how good Tae’s shit is, he’ll be out until tomorrow.”</p><p>Futaba’s always warmer than Sumire. It’s a running joke between them, how Futaba’s the one with the ice cold heart but Sumire’s the one who’s always frozen to the bone. She leans her head against Futaba’s hair, staring at Ren’s comatose body. This sure as shit doesn’t get any less crazy, but at the same time it’s a little enamouring. One night for a lifetime of ignorance. Takemi was like one of those mystifying villains who offered the apple or pair of human legs, all <em>and but, and but. </em></p><p>Sometimes, as much as the procedure beguiles her, Sumire thinks she’d never do it to herself. She’d never want to lose something so vital to her being. Learning experiences should be things you never forget, Takemi would say. At first, Sumire asked then why she kept doing what she did. Takemi only said that not everyone felt the same way. Futaba once said after a few drinks that Takemi was practically a drug dealer who told you not to do drugs while handing you an ounce. This is ignorance.</p><p>Then again, if Sumire were to do it, it would have been a long time ago. Her chest still feels heavy when she thinks of her sister. She’s only human. She’s allowed to want things to go away sometimes.</p><p>Futaba starts to fiddle with her hands. She often reminds Sumire of the blinding lights overhead that Kasumi would be blinking at before launching into a fantastic flip. Sumire hasn’t watched a gymnastics show in years, but when she moves sometimes, turns, she feels the instinct to frame her foot a certain way, to straighten her spine like her sister would. Futaba calls it cute, when she notices. Sumire thinks it’s ugly.</p><p>“So”, Futaba cracks her knuckles jokingly, “you wanted to see how it works?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The snow-globe shatters against the wall and leaves a dent in the stucco. Glittery water drizzles all the way to the floor and I think: fucking déjà vu. I think: there’s Goro.</p><p>This is the last time I see Goro.</p><p>“Did that help?” I taunt at him. The thing about a fight is that you never want to be the one who’s going to lose. Humans are stupid that way. “Try something else! Maybe you’ll hit me in the head this time!”</p><p>“You’re so fucking childish”, Goro spits. He’s beyond angry, taking all of his things strewn around the apartment. “If you were serious for one fucking second of your life then you’d <em>realise</em>—”</p><p>“Me? <em>Childish?</em> You’re the one that acts like a teenage girl in her first fucking relationship. The texts, the calls, the reassurances day after day—I can’t <em>be</em> your fucking therapist.”</p><p>“You just hate that I’m something you can’t fix.” Instead of a bomb diffuser I’ve turned into a stick of active C4. “You can fix everyone’s problems and be <em>so</em> adored but you can’t fix mine and you certainly can’t fix your own.”</p><p>“I don’t want to save you I just want to be a good boyfriend!” I’m yelling and I’m thinking: stop fucking yelling. My dad used to yell so loud that the plates in our cabinet actually fell and I don’t want to know if we’re the same in that regard. Our feet thump down Leblanc’s stairs in off-count tandem and I wonder if my voice carries out into the street, if the coffee jars will explode at the sound of me. “You don’t even trust me. I ask and I ask and I want you to believe me when I say that I love you.”</p><p>“That’s not what this is about.”</p><p>“Isn’t that what this is always about?” My hand hits the door before he can open it, the bell clattering above us, the ring cut short. “I’m not your fucking mother, Goro. I’m not your dad, either.”</p><p>You look back on your catastrophes and you know the exact moments where everything went wrong because they light up with that red-hot fire that can only mean the end. I remember thinking how much of a dick he was being, how far he was into the wrong and not me. You look back on your break-ups and think: I will never be able to kiss you again. I will never be able to hold your hand.</p><p>“You’re an asshole.” I am. “Don’t call me.” I will. “Don’t fucking come by the apartment.” I won’t. “We’re done.” We are.</p><p>“Fuck you!” I yell to him. He’s disappearing down the street and his huffing breaths follow behind him in a cloud of white. My eyelashes feel cold against my cheeks and I realise it’s because I’m crying. He’s getting away. We’re not done—we’re not done until I say we’re done. Another catchphrase of dads. Leblanc’s door shuts loudly behind me and I follow him into the dark. “Fuck you! I’m <em>erasing</em> you. Do you hear me? <em>I’m</em> erasing <em>you!”</em></p><p>A voice from overhead suddenly catches in the wind, a whisper that my head snaps to find; <em>“See? I can track where he is in his memories right now. See that flicker? It’s pretty strong so I’d say it’s a recent memory. No more than a month old.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“That’s amazing.”</em>
</p><p>I slip on a patch of ice chasing him around the corner, just by the cigarette vendor, I brace for impact—</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The carpet is warm under my toes. My glass of wine is half-empty. Music is playing from the kitchen and someone is humming along. I blink, hazy. It feels like I’m dying, like my body’s been drained of whatever life force fueled it. My life is being thrown before my eyes and my skull is cracked somewhere, bleeding into the earth.</p><p>There’s a thin layer of dust on everything from the curtains to the couch because Goro was away for 3 days in Osaka for a case. The other wine glass on the coffee table isn’t filled with wine, but cherry cola. The smell of makeup wipes and a frangipani body spray lingers. I curl my toes into the shag carpet again. My cuticles are torn, my skin dry. I was in Mexico a week and a half ago. I know where I am.</p><p><em>I’m Still Standing </em>is playing from Goro’s Bluetooth speaker even though it’s 8 PM and he has a neighbour who likes to complain about the noise. He’s even doing the dance moves from the music video, strutting across the tiled floor in his socks as he attempts to cook fettuccine Alfredo. He spins distractedly, laminated recipe in hand and a wooden spoon in his mouth. I know he’s forgotten the nutmeg. We’re wearing nothing but our boxers and shirts and as he bends to grab a serving bowl, I can see the little port wine stain on his lower back, a splotch that he says was the size of the tip of his thumb when he was a baby. (“I guess it grew with me. I didn’t know birth marks did that, grow with you.”)</p><p>“You haven’t seen <em>Blade Runner?</em>”</p><p>My body fast-forwards but my brain struggles to keep up. My heart beats too fast, my blood races, and then I settle into a single palpitation. A glitch in my body to notify me of what’s occurred. The inkling of a stroke. I’m hours holder, the sky is darker and under-cooked pasta has been consumed. His legs are in my lap, but he’s pushing away from me.</p><p> “All I know about it is the shitty voice-over and Rutger Hauer’s famous line.” He rolls his eyes at me, getting off of the couch and hunching down to his DVD shelf.</p><p>“The voice-over was removed in the directors cut. I can’t believe you haven’t watched it, I swear we’ve had a whole conversation about it.”</p><p>“I was probably just trying to impress you.”</p><p>He smiles at me over his shoulder, pressing the DVD into the slot.</p><p>“You’re not that impressive.”</p><p>We liked to tease each other, him and I, but it also meant we knew how to be mean and how to make it hurt. Luckily, we hadn’t discovered that yet.</p><p>“I think you just have the hots for Harrison Ford”, I continue as he climbs back onto the couch, punching my arm. “No, seriously: Deckard, Indiana Jones, Han Solo—”</p><p>The lounge is dark. My head is in his lap and he’s untangling knots that surely followed me from some over-chlorinated pool in Cancún. The credits to <em>A New Hope</em> are playing. My stomach hurts, but it could just be the pasta. I nose against his thigh.</p><p>“Remember when you forced me to watch every episode of <em>Sliders?</em>” He snorts, the sound warped with his fist against his cheek.</p><p>“Of course, you wouldn’t shut up about how bad the effects were. And how you were losing years of your life just watching it.”</p><p>“I think it wasn’t so much the effects as it was the general acting, but I didn’t want to pick on it too much because you get huffy when I do that. I didn’t mind <em>Quantum Leap.</em>”</p><p>He twirls a curl of my hair and tugs. “Thank god for small graces.”</p><p>There’s a photo of us on the fridge. My jacket is hanging in his entryway and my clothes are in his laundry. If you went back to my apartment, you would find the same.</p><p>“I seriously watched all of the original <em>Battlestar Galactica</em> for you.”</p><p>“You did.” He tilts over me, pressing a kiss to my eyebrow. I hum and the sound feels raw in my throat, raw from a future fight. His fingers skim there and I want to ask what he’s thinking. I want to ask him if he wants to keep that sound just for him, the same way I want to keep his warmth. But I can’t. This is just a memory.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Another pistachio hits the bowl across the room and Futaba gives a little cheer. Why Ren kept a bag of salted pistachios in his top beside drawer, she couldn’t tell you.</p><p>“Won’t it be weird for you?” Sumire asks. Their legs are tangled together, outstretched from the couch where their weight dips in the middle. “Goro’s one of your closest friends, Ren’s your brother…”</p><p>Futaba fiddles with a pistachio between her fingers. She hadn’t really thought about it like that.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Hey superstar.”</p><p>He leans over the back of Ann’s couch, wrapping his arms around my front and pressing a kiss to my ear. His drink sloshes slightly and I squint at him through the rose-tint of his Elton John glasses. The party is successfully claustrophobic, and I know that somewhere Ryuji is attempting to dye Futaba’s hair green as a last-minute attempt to fully assimilate into Feather Green. Indulgent me, I reach out and touch Goro’s dangly earring, nudging his glasses out of place.</p><p>“I think you’re the superstar here.”</p><p>“Ha, ha.” He comes around the side of the couch and perches on the armrest, drink on his knee (sparkling apple juice). I put my hand on his bedazzled thigh and he smears the already smudged eyeliner under my eye—what a pair we make. “You’re late. Why didn’t you come find me?”</p><p>“You were in the middle of karaoke with Haru, I didn’t want to bother you. I’ve only been here ten minutes.” I trace a particularly purple sequin near his knee. “What did Ann dress up as this year? I’ve been dying of anticipation.”</p><p>“Funny you say that…” he fixes my collar, his platform shoe clicking against the coffee table corner. God, I wouldn’t be ready when we stood next to each other, those shoes had to be six inches at the least. I’d be ready to drop to my knees. “She convinced Yusuke to do a Rocky Horror homage with her. She’s Dr. Frank, he’s Janice.”</p><p>“Beginning of the movie Janice or end of the movie Janice?”</p><p>“Middle.” Goro takes a sip of his juice. “He’s walking around in Ann’s lingerie.”</p><p>“Good for him.”</p><p>“That’s what I said."</p><p>The hum of the partygoers this particular Halloween is a comforting thing. I remember how tired I’d felt the actual night. I’d just flown back in from Hawaii and wasn’t looking forward to Ann’s plans, but I wanted to see Goro. We were new, squeaky clean—we hadn’t even kissed properly yet. We would tonight. He squints at me.<br/>
<br/>
“I still can’t tell what you’re meant to be. You told me I’d know straight away.”</p><p>“What, you don’t?”</p><p>He thumbs absently at the nape of my neck, crossing one leg over the other. My fingers shift to his hip.</p><p>“What”, he deadpans, “steam-punk reject?”</p><p>“Thanks, Liberace.”</p><p>He grins, tugging on my earlobe.</p><p>“Don’t tell me—”</p><p>“I won’t finish watching <em>Roswell</em> if you don’t get it, seriously.” He actually frowns at this. After meeting Goro, I may as well have been classed a sci-fi connoisseur with all of the shows he had me watch.</p><p>“Are you making a Harrison Ford joke?”</p><p>“No sexy rebels tonight.”</p><p>“If you had a fake tattoo and shaved your head, you’d look like Bernie Taupin.”</p><p>“We agreed against couples costumes. I’m an independent man.”</p><p>“Here I was about to guess that you were dressed as my charming boyfriend who looks very good in eyeliner.”</p><p>“How good?”</p><p>“<em>Very </em>good.”</p><p>We laugh and the song over the speaker changes. Somewhere Yusuke and Haru are doing the can-can. Makoto is dutifully playing host. Futaba is rinsing her head under the sink and Ryuji’s trying to clean up green dye from Ann’s wall before she sees. I shift closer to him, nudging my head against his side. He uncrosses his legs and runs his nails over my scalp.</p><p>“You’re wearing a bolo tie”, he remarks. “Is this your idea of cowboy chic?”</p><p>“What, it isn’t yours? Look at my boots!” They’re bright red—horrific. “The eyeliner was to throw you off, or maybe to get your attention. I haven’t decided yet.”</p><p>Ann’s strung spider-shaped lights all over the walls and fake webs decorate each corner. Someone has brought two skeleton babes as a date and he looks suspiciously dressed as Theodore ‘Ted’ Logan the third. Goro doesn’t exactly look at me for a moment, but stares enough in my general direction. He does this thing where he focuses on appearing unfocused when in actuality he’s incredibly focused and deep in thought. He was good at it, too. He blindly reaches out to stop me from fiddling with another sequin. Some of his drink spills, landing on the couch. Ann will yell at us later.</p><p>“I don’t see anyone else when you’re in the room”, he tells me. “It’s always been that way, ever since I first met you.” He’s not smiling how I think I’d like him to. That smile that lets me know things are okay, that lets me know we’re good, even if it’s just for tonight. He talks to me like I’m the reflected pane of Ren Amamiya, like he’s practicing for when he’ll tell the real me later, if at all. He touches my temple.</p><p>“Like I could see anyone else.”</p><p>The music continues without a fault but mid-air, mid-motion, things begin to drop. Glasses shatter and the neon strobe lights flash an erratic red, yellow, green. Conversations cut short and my breath catches in my throat, Goro’s hand placing over mine, a ring on each of his fingers.</p><p>“You signed up for this. There’s no use panicking about it now.”</p><p>“Delayed reactions”, I rasp. Apparently you don’t even notice you’ve been shot if you haven’t seen it happen. There have been cases of people being stabbed and bleeding out hours later without even realising they’ve been stabbed in the first place.</p><p>This is my profuse, bleeding wound. My everlasting funeral.</p><p>“You’re indecisive and stupid. Newly impulsive.” He laughs a little. “You’ve never been this impulsive before. The Ren I knew would hide under his covers for a few days and take it all out on himself. He couldn’t make a decision to save his life.” Goro lets go of my hand and smudges my eyeliner further down my cheek. “Have you decided what you want yet?”</p><p>“No”, I whisper. I can still taste beer on my tongue, can smell his cologne, can hear laughter if I try hard enough and I <em>try.</em> I want to stay in this moment. I want to say in every moment. Reminiscing should be illegal because it always makes you want to go back. “I don’t know. I wanted to start over but you got rid of me, Goro. You got <em>rid</em> of me.”</p><p>“How impulsive.”</p><p>I turn my head; catch his thumb on my lip.</p><p>“ I was never impulsive until I met you.”</p><p>We are a car crash. My thing to never look away from. His seatbelt. Our dash. Am thinking I need to look away now or else my eyes will burn so hard you’d think I was staring at the sun 24-hours a day, 7 days a week. His sun. Is a sun. We are.</p><p>When I wrote my travel journals, I liked to think I thought like a protagonist. Really I thought like nothing. Like words you dream of or type and backspace and stare at on the screen because you backspaced too fast and your computers just churning away: undo. Redo.</p><p>I am still in love with you.</p><p>Undo, undo, undo.</p><p>The worst thing you can do is realise you don’t want to move on.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ann’s apartment tears itself away from me. Not a simple <em>blink-and-you’ll-miss</em>, but a tear. I can hear the shredding noise as the memory is torn away from my mind and I cry out. It fucking hurts. The clinic room replaces it, my back to that dentists chair and the droning noise of Futaba explaining and Takemi guiding and my own voice repeating every bad thing I’ve ever thought of him—of Goro. Of you. The room is closing in. This nightmare sings a familiar refrain in my brain and somewhere Queen is playing. A foot is tapping. I’m barely blinking as Takemi switches out the tie in front of me for a tube of lip balm. Colours whir around the room. The room is shrinking and I want to be crushed. Crush. Cherry Crush, the colour of his lip balm. The colour of your first date, of your final blush. Crush, crush, crush. Goro stares at me from the darkened corner of the clinic room and he’s frowning. I need to tell him I’m sorry. I need to tell him to stay; stay even when they try to take you away.</p><p>He tilts his head. Takemi leans back in her chair, and what she should say here is <em>focus on the lip balm.</em> Instead, she looks me in the eye and says: You want to stop this.</p><p>She says: I told you what would happen and you said you understood.</p><p>She says: You don’t want to do this but you are.</p><p>She says: Enjoy it while it lasts.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Futaba Sakura was a firm believer in never having your phone on silent. <em>Emergencies happen</em>, Sojiro instilled in her<em>. Life happens. It’s not precaution its necessity.</em> And then he’d pat her head and tell her to get the cream from the fridge so he could get started on the ice-cream base. It wasn’t like she disagreed with him; in fact she’d hammered the habit into the group after Yusuke accidentally got arrested at the gas station. Makoto tended to back her up after that.</p><p>The point is, she’s all for having her phone on at all times, but right now she really wishes it wasn’t, because with her hand halfway up Sumire’s top and Sumire’s lip gloss on her lips, there truly are better things to be worried about.</p><p>“Who is it?” Sumire asks and Futaba drags her glasses back on her face. Sumire is a warm weight beside her. God, did she bring her asthma puffer? She has a feeling she might need it.</p><p>Futaba frowns.</p><p>“That’s weird.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Goro asked if I remembered Haru’s birthday in Yokosuka.”</p><p>“Isn’t that were he met Ren?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Futaba stares at the text a little longer, her foot tapping. Sumire runs her fingers through her hair. The laptop continues to hum away. Morgana snores from atop a pile of laundry.</p><p>“I’m sure it’s nothing. Reminiscing”, Sumire tries. Reminiscing is dangerous, Futaba thinks, and rarely possible after this procedure. Reminiscing turns into carefully staged memories to come when called. This should not be happening.</p><p>“You didn’t erase the memory completely?” Sumire then prompts. Futaba shakes her head.</p><p>“No, it’s a little different for cases like that since it would be strange for Goro not to remember a birthday of Haru’s—they’re best friends.  Since so many of us were there that night, Tae could blur it a little so it seemed like Ren wasn’t there at all. He shouldn’t be randomly thinking of it like this, though.” Sumire sighs and sits up, fixing her shirt straight.</p><p>“What do you want to do?”</p><p>“Nothing, nothing. I’m sure it’s fine. It’s Goro, he always messages weird shit in the middle of the night. Like, one time he showed up at the house at 2 in the morning because he couldn’t remember if he’d seen this movie or not so I just watched it with him. I think he just wanted company.” Sumire is unconvinced.</p><p>“You want me to give you a minute? You can call him.”</p><p>“It’s fine, seriously.” Futaba shakes her head as she sets her phone down, leaning back against the couch and tugging on a sprig of Sumire’s hair. “Go back to telling me about your exciting day.”</p><p>Sumire smiles.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>His bed was always better than mine; larger, softer, we’d lay in it even on the hottest summer days when all you want to do is abandon the duvet. One of the wooden slats in the base was broken but the mattress was so comfortable that you didn’t notice it. Not while you’re gripping the bed head—not even while you’re cuffed to it.</p><p>My pulse, your pulse, our pulse.</p><p>You know in the movies when they can’t show sex scenes and instead pan down to the foot of the bed, to the calves sensually running along each other in slow motion and the invisible dragging sound of the mattress cover crinkling—I love that feeling. The push of our feet against each other, the warmth of his skin and the heat burning down my neck when he drags his lips there, me rushing to hook my leg around his back. Every part of me has meaning with him. Muscles want to work better and smiles want to come faster, faster; it’s real and it’s mine. It’s his.</p><p>This is the first time he fucks me this way. Usually I can be found A) begging for it, B) crying for it or C) on my knees for it. Tonight he’s on top of me, his hands in my hands, his thighs clenched around my thighs. I feel that crack in my skull again, everything drifting out and scribbling into gravity. His name, over and over again. Goro. Goro.</p><p>“I’m going to fuck you”, he murmurs to me. “You want that? Want me?”</p><p>My heart is in my throat. Yes. Yes I fucking want that, I fucking want you. Am so glad you’re with me. I never want anything else. Feels like my heart doesn’t even have a place in my body because you’re holding it, you’re holding it and it’s beating so hard I can feel it in my tongue. I can’t breathe, that’s how much I love him. He leans over me, his mouth open over mine as if he was about to perform resuscitation. He’s on top of me and I think: <em>please.</em> Dad said: respect your elders. Mom said: be kind. I think: how much I love you. And then he moves higher up my body and his eyes are so dark, his lips are moving and I feel more alive than I’ve felt in weeks.</p><p>Dad said: don’t leave the table until you’re done. Mom said: cleanliness is close to godliness.</p><p>“Sit up”, Goro commands.</p><p>He fucks himself on me. Slow. My head is touching the back wall and his hand is low on my throat. I am not allowed to breathe when he’s with me. Slower. The muscles of his thighs are hard under my hands and the drag of his lips on my cheek leaves a trail of glittering saliva. I am the sweat in his underarms. I am my stomach constricting.</p><p>He says my name like: just checking the mail.</p><p>He moans my name like: just putting money in the till.</p><p>He whispers my name like: “Ren.”</p><p>We’ve been dating for a few months and I want to tell him about my dreams. I want him to know how long I’ve thought of kissing him, how his cheek kisses have left me restless. I wanted to wake up and make coffee in sync and brush our teeth side by side and have sex so late at night that we fell asleep halfway through, only to wake up and slide him against me, inside me. He’s hammering pegs into me, setting up camp. And it goes without saying that we’re both hypocrites who trust each other too much and don’t trust each other enough to believe it when we say we love each other.</p><p>“Love you”, I slur. My nails break skin. “Love you, love you—”</p><p>I want you so bad that I can’t think.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Hello? Earth to Ren?”</p><p>Waiting at the gate to his apartment, Goro shakes his keys again. His eyebrows are raised into his hairline and he looks bemused, if a bit unimpressed. I look down at what I’m wearing: a summer jacket, light jeans, we’ve just come back from a club in Shinjuku.  He shakes the keys again.</p><p>“For me?” I ask. A script is rolling in my brain, printing rapid-time on my tongue.</p><p>“No”, he deadpans. He’s in the loafers I teased him about and a button-up buttoned down to his chest. “Com on, are you going to unlock the door for me or not?”</p><p>I reach for the keys and—</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I close my eyes against the sun. You know when you smell something, or taste something, or see something and suddenly you’re back there. Where. Ever. Yeah.</p><p>Lemon soda. Pistachios. The sticky-sweet remains of a shared apple on our lips and fingers. The wet grass. Him, beside me. I peer up at him and his eyes are closed; his skin is glowing. He’s humming along to the song in the both of our ears, headphones tangled between us, his fingertip tracing shapes on my chest, his face above mine—propped up by an elbow and palm. His knees are angled over me. We both have pollen in our hair.</p><p>
  <em>Amoreena’s in the cornfield brightening the daybreak.</em>
</p><p>You know when you move your bed and rearrange your room and that night you just lay in the dark and pretend you didn’t change your room at all and you really are staring at the door, not your window frame. Yeah.</p><p>
  <em>Living like a lusty flower, running through the grass for hours.</em>
</p><p>“Beautiful day”, Goro says softly, stretching out like a cat in the sun with his head tilting against mine and his fringe tangling over my eyes briefly. “Beautiful day, beautiful boy.”</p><p>“Me or you?” I ask quietly. He squints a smile.</p><p>“Always you.”</p><p>Goro’s so dangerous; he’s like boiling water.  Like waiting baths. He’s shoes and socks with the feet inside and I am nothing but the air. This sort of love is dangerous. It’s blue and thick, cheap cough syrup for a sickness he gave me—completely counterproductive. This is how dad felt. I want Goro more and more, more until he is me. And his lips are mine and words I remember him saying are mine to claim. All the things he could say that I could barely get out. God. God, I miss you. I miss you so much it aches. Why do you hurt so much? He starts to stroke my hair and I close my eyes again. I know what I want. I always know what I want.</p><p>“I want you.” He plucks an eyelash from my cheek and blows it away. “I want you”, I repeat. The sun is baking our skin. “I don’t want to lose this.” The smell of it is a Sunday roast: our own summer heat.</p><p>“What, <em>‘you didn’t know what you had until it was gone?’</em> ” He tilts his head at me. “I’m not gone yet, Ren. Stop overreacting. Just open your eyes.”</p><p>“It’s not that easy—”</p><p>“Isn’t it?” He purses his lips. His skin is flushed, growing shaded as he drops down onto both elbows and leans his face close to mine, bumping our noses. “Stop making things so complicated.”</p><p>“Hypocrite.”</p><p>“Just wake up like you’re in a bad dream. Remember when you and Ryuji tried to train yourselves to lucid dream and you freaked yourself out so much that you rolled out of bed that one night?”</p><p>“That wasn’t funny.”</p><p>“It was a little bit.” His breath is hot, breathing on my lips and I’m trying to keep him in focus, darting between his eyes and holding my own breath, staying still.</p><p>“Close your eyes, Ren.”</p><p>
  <em>My bedroom ceiling.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My bedroom ceiling.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My bedroom—</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Happy birthday again, I suppose.”</p><p>Goro snaps the band on my party hat against my cheek and I slap his hand away, rubbing the spot sorely. We’re sitting in Ann’s lounge again and it’s my 26<sup>th</sup> birthday. The room is an awful mix of <em>‘it’s a boy!’</em> decorations and Christmas tinsel. A birthday cake with sloppy icing is in front of us with only seven lit candles.</p><p>“It’s always been unfortunate how close you were born to Christmas,” Goro comments, giving the cluttered tree a wry glance. “You were hell to buy presents for.”</p><p>“Don’t be a dick. You were right, anyway. Opening my eyes worked but only for a second. I could barely see anything, just my ceiling.” He hums, flicking lint off his sweater.</p><p>“I bet by now I would have woken up.”</p><p>“Because you’re a light sleeper and a <em>dick.” </em>I shove his shoulder. “Shut up and help me or I’ll just have to make do with dragging you from memory to memory.”</p><p>To be fair, he’d probably throw me down with whatever aikido move Makoto taught him before I even got the chance to touch him. He picks at one of the pom-poms attached to my sweater and sighs.</p><p>“There’s a very simple solution. Since you’re so intent on running, run to something old. Repressed. Traumatic. A memory that isn’t on the map.” He noses my jaw and I think <em>oh, oh right. </em>“Or maybe I could suck you off right here. Do you think Ann knows we’ve done it on her couch?”</p><p>The rain is sudden and harsh. The candles on my birthday cake are immediately extinguished and Goro’s perfectly styled hair is muted to a floppy mess. He cups his hand, collecting rain in his palm, before chucking it in my face. I splutter.</p><p>“<em>Dick</em>”, he accentuates.</p><p>“You said a bad memory. Bad memories are generally the shit ones.”</p><p>“I said repressed, not bad.” He huffs and drags his wet fringe away from his eyes. “Well, which one is it? First kiss? Got caught jacking off?”</p><p>“In the <em>rain?</em>”</p><p>“You’ve done worse things, Ren."</p><p>The ground isn’t absorbing the rain like it should be, instead landing wetly and collecting in small pools. I can smell the dirt before it appears, can feel the stitching of winter clothes drag on my body before they cover me. Goro sees through me.</p><p>“I can’t”, I say.</p><p>“You can”, he promises.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I don’t think of my mother’s death in terms of a day. It ‘s a natural occurrence, as natural as opening your window in the morning. The first time I visit her grave since she was put there is also the only time Goro goes with me. It’s funny how real he makes it seems, how sudden all of it feels, like maybe I still need time. His mother died around the same time mine did, but he claims to have made peace with it all. 15 years didn’t feel long enough. Was it enough for him? I wanted to ask. Before now, I was able to pretend she was still away, waiting for me to come home while I bounced between Miami and Rome. The granite with her name on it is clean. I feel like I’ve been on death row my whole life, waiting for the day that car comes back around and hits me too. And I know she lives on in my heart, she loves me still, she’s watching over me and she’s also every child that passes me by, each teenager that walks with a sigh. And I know she’s dying all over again, step by step, as I face her once more. I wonder if decay can get rid of a tyre print on someone’s face.</p><p>I remember thinking the rain felt too well-timed, like no matter how much I believed I had made the decision on my own to come here, fate had the day marked in red on its calendar.</p><p>“I remember one time we were hiding in the bathroom from my dad and she was just sobbing, straight up sobbing into my arms and she kept apologising. Kept telling me that if you can do one thing in the world, never be dependent on someone else. I didn’t know how to fix her. Didn’t know how to tell her it was okay. I’m not good at saying things out loud, so I tried to write her a letter but writing it down made it too real. I could never show that to her. I never got to tell her it was going to be okay, even if it was going to be a lie.”</p><p>“She knows”, is what Goro says. “I know.” It means a lot, those words. Looking back, they almost mean too much.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>For the first time since trials, the procedure goes wrong.</p><p>“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Sumire watches Futaba type frantically at her laptop, checking and re-checking wires and readjusting Ren’s headset without moving it too much. Sumire sits on her hands, afraid of touching anything.</p><p>“Maybe it’s a glitch”, she suggests tentatively.</p><p>“It doesn’t <em>glitch</em>”, Futaba snaps. “What the fuck. What the <em>fuck. </em>Of course Ren has to be the different one, what the hell.”</p><p>“This hasn’t happened before?”</p><p>“If it did, I’d be able to fix it. It’s like he just disappeared. He’s going to be fucking half-baked if I don’t fix this.”</p><p>“Call Takemi.”</p><p>“No”, Futaba says immediately. “I get one of these wrong and she’ll have me on desk. I can fix this, I just have to figure out—”</p><p>“You can’t fix this”, Sumire interrupts, “and you don’t want to risk messing with Ren’s brain further if you try to fix it. <em>Call Takemi.</em> She has years of experience compared to you. That isn’t an insult, either. It’s a fact and it’s a tool.”</p><p>Futaba looks so young, some days. With her face so pale and her shoulders slumped, its hard to picture the woman Sumire knows; all bumbling confidence and overbearing for what she thinks she doesn’t have.</p><p>Futaba turns away, rubbing her eyes under her glasses and picking up her phone. Sumire counts the seconds it takes for Tae to answer: one.</p><p>“Hey, so—no, no I know, but Ren’s gone completely off the grid. Yes. Fuck, <em>yes</em>. I tried that. Uh-huh. No, his vitals have been normal the whole way through. Of course, I didn’t leave the laptop once.” Sumire winces at this. Futaba’s voice goes all high the same way it does when she’s lying, and she’s sure Tae hears it too. “No, I know. Alright, see you in a few.”</p><p>Futaba hangs up, and Sumire flexes her fingers under her thighs.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“More rain.”</p><p>“It’s different rain.” I can see my house in the distance: the two-storey one with the rose bushes and the white balcony. The charcoal roof. The clouds are dark but the sky is very brightly blue. The sun is shining. The roads are wet.  It is a summer rain.</p><p>Goro is holding my hand. His dress has a scooped neck and flows out at his knees, the colour of lavender but on the pink side. His tennis sneakers are soaked.</p><p>I am a child. This is repressed trauma.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Takemi arrives in her dressing gown with bobby pins in her hair and her slippers squeaking on the floor; her laptop is tucked under her arm and a cable is looped around her shoulder. She stares wearily at Sumire and Futaba’s hands start to wave in the way she does when she’s about to go on a tangent.</p><p>“I wanted to see how the procedure worked”, Sumire explains quickly. “Futaba was kind enough to show me.”</p><p>Takemi stares a little longer but looks away. Sumire takes a breath.</p><p>“Just tell me what happened.”</p><p>“It was out of nowhere”, Futaba takes the cable from Takemi and moves to attach it to the wide console. “He was completely smooth from the beginning but then he just blinked off and the alarm sounded.”</p><p>“I’m going to go through his whole memory and see if I can pick him out”, Takemi decides, dragging over the chair Futaba had been using to the side of the bed. “It’s entirely possible he just got distracted—this can happen in cases of people with overactive minds or undiagnosed disorders that we haven’t taken into account. ADHD, anxiety, things like that.” She clicks at Futaba. “If you can send his pointers to me, we can try amplify them and draw him back in.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Mom was always superstitious about putting words into the universe. Once you said something, it could happen. She wasn’t one of those people who would see a fancy vase or jacket and say; <em>I’d die for that.</em> She was afraid of death.</p><p>Lavender turns violet when wet. With each step we take towards the house, water splashes up beneath our feet and touches his dress. “It was my mom’s favourite”, I tell him. “She loved to dress up. You always kind of looked like her, to me.”</p><p>“How so?”</p><p>“Same eyes, that’s all. She loved Elton John too.”</p><p>A car passes and it’s going too fast for a downhill slope in wet conditions. Goro’s head turns to follow it and his skirt billows out to the side. If I’d reached out, then, the mirror could have taken my fingers clean off.</p><p>“It’s going to be okay”, Goro says vaguely, looking back to me with a tight frown. He stoops to my height and grips my arms. “Believe me when I say it’s going to be okay. Say it back to me.”</p><p>“It’s going to be okay.”</p><p>“Again.”</p><p>“It’s going to be okay."</p><p>“Louder.”</p><p>“It’s going to be—"</p><p>He pushes me backwards towards a drain where the rain is still collecting. The car skids over the roundabout and slams my mother right into a tree. Her dress grows a dark, dark violet. I scream.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“His eyes are open.”</p><p>Takemi moves quickly, pulling a slouched makeup bag from her dressing gown pocket and picking out a sterile syringe with a small jar of clear liquid. She uncaps the syringe and Sumire watches in rapt attention as she pierces the jar, empties it, and plunges it all into the fat of Ren’s arm, neatly pulling his shirt back into place in time with her dropping the syringe in the purse again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The shower spray is lukewarm and our hair is full of shampoo suds. Goro’s arms cave around me, his hips moving my hips, his phone playing from the highest shelf in the bathroom cabinet.</p><p>“Somewhere else then”, he says over the water, wrapping me closer. Wet skin always feels so weird against more wet skin, the same way your skin feels waxy after using bar soap. I’m holding on too tightly to him. “How about back in high school? Everyone has repressed memories from high school.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I’m 15, newly adopted by one Sojiro Sakura, getting my first kiss from an 18 year-old by the Shujin sports shed. Goro fiddles with my turtleneck, elbows either side of my head.</p><p>“Bet I was a better—”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In bed: not mine, not his. Hotel. Am cupping a phone to my ear. Am paying for an international call. Am not minding.</p><p>Goro is saying: “There’s nothing wrong with it, you’re just being too hard on yourself. You have nothing to lose trying to get yourself published.” I laugh quietly. I think I’ve been crying.</p><p>“I hate the way I write.”</p><p>“I like it. I like how you ignore how sentences are meant to be and just make them your own, because as long as they make you feel something then that’s what matters. Isn’t that what you said to me? When you write, my world stand still. Every time. That means something.”</p><p>Heart hurts. Stomach hurts. I hurt a lot lately.</p><p>“I miss you.”</p><p>“I miss you”, Goro echoes. He is a hum over the phone, a voice I can close my eyes and see. “I miss you”, he repeats. “I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.” I can hear the shaky sigh that leaves my mouth and feel embarrassed, but he just sighs with me. “What’s so great about Spain anyway?” he asks. “I’m all the way over here. I’m nowhere near Spain.” I close my eyes and I can watch the way he swallows. I follow that movement, that long line. I could describe rivers in Amsterdam but how could I describe this? His lips. His breath. His heart hiding in my chest. I wanted to keep these words to myself, bury them so far into my throat that no amount of gagging could get them out. These words, cysts in my throat, inarticulate and messy, made from the flowers that would stick to his sleeve as he cycled past them in the morning, the same flowers I found in Prague and tucked above my eyelids like organic eye shadow, these words were mine alone. And then, like he can read my mind, like he is in my mind, like I am out of my mind—</p><p>“Ren”, he says softly.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Futaba lets out a shaky sigh, wiping her palms on her pants and grabbing Ren’s wallet from his counter. “That was insane. I’m gonna grab a drink from the vending machine across the road, do either of you want anything?”</p><p>“Just a water”, Takemi requests, leaning back in her seat but keeping a firm eye on Ren’s vitals. “Thanks, Futaba.” Sumire picks at her nail polish.</p><p>She wouldn’t call herself a selfish girl. She—she <em>understands</em> what it is to be selfish for yourself in the things that matter, but even then she struggles with it. The bell downstairs rings, and like clockwork her gaze darts to Tae. She wouldn’t be able to explain it to you, if you asked. Some things just were. Sometimes the brain just decided what to do without you, and then suddenly you’re nothing but a corpse in the dirt but <em>in love.</em> So in love.</p><p>“I really admire what you do.” Takemi looks up in some surprise. She’s pulled her hairclips out and it’s caused some curls to spring loose—Sumire is infatuated. Who knew Dr. Tae Takemi straightened her hair? It was as precious as the work she did. “What I mean to say is it’s really good. Like, helpful. Selfless.” Sumire hates her own mouth, a lot of the time. Takemi smiles regardless, though it’s a little frayed.</p><p>“A job’s a job, but thank you.”</p><p>“It’s more than a job”, Sumire protests, moving to sit at the edge of the bed, her knee knocking Takemi’s thigh as she sat. “You’re seriously saving people’s lives. That’s just—it’s amazing, Tae. I’m seriously in awe of you every day.”</p><p>“Sumire—”</p><p>Kissing her is like kissing your favourite brand of chocolate, your favourite shirt and your favourite pillow to sleep on. Her hair feels like silk in Sumire’s fingers and she tastes—</p><p>like being pushed away. Takemi’s frown is stern, firm, and all Sumire can think is no, no, no. And Takemi is saying: Sumire. Sumire, listen. Somehow these words are familiar even when they shouldn’t be. Somehow these sensations are like déjà vu but deceptively.</p><p>Sumire, I don’t love you.</p><p>Sumire, you need to know.</p><p>Sumire, you’ve done this before.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A month. A failed journal. The one time I bring Goro with me to Italy without actually bringing him to Italy. A month after we met and 2 days after I was sending him pictures of cathedrals I didn’t know the names of. Some of his favourite movies are set in Europe. Not the sci-fi shows, but the movies. His mother had a collection of movies set in Italy; <em>La Dolce Vita, The Italian Job, Cinema Paradiso, The Room With A View, Roman Holiday</em>—therefore he loved Italy, too. This is how we are all raised. I don’t ever ask him who showed him his love of sci-fi.</p><p>A movie rental place. Our fingers keep tangling and untangling—we’re that new.</p><p>“I want to see you again after this”, I tell him, hooked around his pinkie. “A lot more after this. Whenever you’ll let me, I mean.”</p><p>“A lot more, huh?” he repeats with a grin. “I could probably fit you in my schedule.”</p><p>“I’ve got a criminal record, does that push me up the ladder?”</p><p>“Do you need legal representation?”</p><p>“All of it. Complete and total legal representation.”</p><p>“I’ll get you in touch with a defense lawyer.”</p><p>“I’m <em>serious</em>—”</p><p>I’m in love, I think.</p><p>“You think you love me”, Goro agrees. It’s early days so he hasn’t gotten his ears pierced yet. He’s less comfortable in his skin and I’m stretching mine for too many people; there were some good things we did to each other, not all of it was wreckage and ruin. “You think you love me and we’ve only met just once before.”</p><p>“We’ve been texting.”</p><p>“And you love me.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>We stop in the international film aisle. The memory of us both watching <em>Amelie</em> and trying to be like her by eating raspberries off of our fingertips flutters through my mind—the juices from the berries staining our shirts and lips. It’s gone so quickly. He stares me in the eye and I know this is the moment the reviewers will sing about, this is the part of the script with the highlighted line, this is the part where Goro looks me in my eye and chooses to stay.</p><p>“Just remember me, Ren. It’s all you need to do. Remember me and I’ll be there.”</p><p>He had the keys to my house, the keys to my bed. He could slip in at any time and I’d let him; never pressing charges, just pressing in. I want him again. I never want to be without him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I thought it was just one of those admiration-crushes. Like with teachers, you know? They know so much and you want them to think you’re smart so you try and try… but I fell in love with you the moment you gave me this job. It doesn’t sound possible but it’s true, Tae. It’s the truest thing I’ve ever known.”</p><p>Sumire pauses the recording and cries.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank u for reading!</p><p>— tnevmucric.carrd.co</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. hashirimizu beach</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I didn’t know.”</p><p>Sumire jumps, the box in her arms jostling as she looks towards the clinic exit. The sun is just beginning to raise over the roofs behind Futaba and she looks exhausted, her skin puffy from lack of sleep. The guilt doesn’t have room to grow heavy in Sumire, so it weighs above her head like a cloud.</p><p>“I didn’t know”, Futaba repeats, her knuckles white. “If I knew…”</p><p>“There’s not much you could have done, I think”, Sumire says quietly. “Did you ever suspect?”</p><p>“Maybe”, she admits. “I don’t know. You’ve always talked about her a lot and she’s always sort of avoided talking about you. I didn’t know what to think. I just liked you, and you started to like me too and…”</p><p>“I shouldn’t have led you on.”</p><p>“You shouldn’t have”, Futaba agrees. A pair of cyclists pass by, their chatter blurring past with them. It’s silent on the street again. Not even the grocer is awake.</p><p>“I’m sorry”, Sumire whispers.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Sumire turns and sets the box in her waiting car, shutting the door and facing Futaba for a final time. She smiles, a genuine one, as if nothing in the world was going wrong. It was the same smile she’d greeted Futaba with when they’d first met and they both knew it; couples tended to know these things when they were about to part.</p><p>“I’m going to miss you.”</p><p>Sumire leaves. As she disappears down the narrow Yongen street, boxes of files flutter in the boot.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I hate the beach. It’s that hate you get when you hate rich people because you’re not rich or skinny people because you’re not skinny. I hate the beach because dad said it didn’t matter, and mom said it was the thing that mattered most to her. There used to be nothing that mattered to me that much, except for maybe hating that vast body closing us off from everyone but also connecting us should anyone try. There’s water in the sky, in our bodies, in our cups—how my father or I ever thought we could run from it escapes me. The sea is inevitable.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This is the night we met. Haru’s 24<sup>th</sup>. I remember just wanting to impress you. On the drive home, we learned I’d just finished a popular book that you were still reading and I spoiled the ending because I thought it’d impress you. How stupid is that.</em>
</p><p>“Finally awake, huh?” Makoto’s sunglasses are tinted a deep red and eye me through the rear view mirror. Haru’s grinning over the shoulder of the passenger seat, her sunhat taking up a good half of the dash space. We’re parked at the top of an asphalted driveway that leads down to the beach, the asphalt giving way for grey-coloured sand. Aside us, on the horizon of the water, the sun is half-set.</p><p>“How long have we been parked?” I ask groggily. Haru makes a so-so gesture with her hand.</p><p>“Five minutes. Ryuji, Ann and Futaba are already down at the bonfire. I was going to grab the water gun and spray you with seawater if you weren’t awake by the time we got back from taking the chairs down.”</p><p>“Want me to go back to sleep?”</p><p>“If you like.”</p><p>“Are you sure you’re turning 24?” Makoto asks her. I notice they’re not even in the car with me, just leaning into it. Makoto shuts the driver’s door to open mine. Haru pokes her tongue out.</p><p>“I have a gun and I’m not afraid to use it.”</p><p>“I’m going to drain it every time you’re not looking.”</p><p>“A lady never lets her gun leave her side.”</p><p>“I don’t doubt that. After one drink, you’ll be filling the gun with <em>wine</em>.”</p><p>“She’s got a point,” I cut in. Out in the open, the sea breeze hits me from all angles. It’s uninviting. The sun’s more uninviting. I hold my arms around myself. “Why did I wear jeans?”</p><p>“I <em>told </em>you to dress warm.” Makoto goes to the boot of the car, unlocking it to reveal the cooler and a few blankets. She throws a hoodie at me and I catch it with both hands, peering at the tag.</p><p>“This is mine.”</p><p>“I’m a planner”, she shuts the boot, hefting the cooler by one handle onto the ground. “You would all crash and burn without me.”</p><p>Haru saunters over with all of the self-assured confidence an almost 24 year-old has and plucks Makoto’s sunglasses from her face, sliding them into the curls of her strawberry blonde hair. “Well, you are the only designated driver we trust.”</p><p>“If Ren ever got his license—”</p><p>“<em>La la la la</em>, I’m not listening.” I wrangle the hoodie over my head and wipe my nose. Can one be allergic to the ocean? Pulling up to the beach I spot a car with tinted windows. “Is that Yusuke? Did he get an Uber?”  Makoto squints, her hand shielding her eyes.</p><p>“Goro must have picked him up.”</p><p>“Goro?”</p><p>“I told you he was coming”, Haru reminds me. “I showed you a picture of him just the other week.”</p><p>“You’re talking to the man who can’t remember his 3-times-tables”, Makoto points out. “He’d forget his name if it wasn’t on that ugly key chain he bought in Okinawa.” I kick her foot.</p><p>“You told me you were going to keep that a secret.”</p><p>
  <em>“Haru!”</em>
</p><p>The men walking over are equally similar and dissimilar all at once. For one, Yusuke is waddling over in a complete wetsuit. The other is in a complete three-piece suit.</p><p>“We’re having a bonfire, why are they dressed like that?”</p><p>“They’re individuals”, Haru explains grandiosely, shoving her hat on her head. “Savants, even. I’m going to go get hugs. Bring the cooler?” She rushes off towards them, flip-flops smacking loudly. Makoto sets a hand on her hip, blankets now under her arm and the car-key in her back pocket.</p><p>“He’s a little rough around the edges sometimes, but I think you’ll get along just fine.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Goro”, she nods to him. His and Yusuke’s arms are around Haru fully, their faces all huddled together in a childish sort of secrecy. It’s sweet to look at. “We work in the same firm just different levels—get lunch sometimes, too.”</p><p>“<em>He’s</em> the one you get lunch with when I’m out of town?” She nudges the cooler against my toes.</p><p>“I forgot how much of a diva you could be. Come on, let’s go say hi.”</p><p>
  <em>I can’t tell you everything I thought about that night in those stretches of moments where people do have things to think. Walking over to him that first time, the sun so dark and the sky so orange, I was dragging my feet and carrying a cooler in my arms thinking; I’d rather be anywhere else. Now, though, I can exaggerate it for you. I can paint our first meeting how it should have been and how it really was, somewhere inside of me, because I was being charmed the moment I saw his car pull into view—that’s how charismatic he could be. He defied everything.</em>
</p><p>“Goro Akechi”, Makoto greets once we’re close enough. He lets go of Haru and Yusuke to give her a greeting kiss on the cheek. “You’re not exactly dressed for the occasion.”</p><p>“I was running late from work and didn’t have time to change”, he explains, eyes settling on me with some interest. Sucker for a pretty guy, me. “I take it you’re Ren”, he offers me his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s a shame we’ve missed out on the opportunity to meet until now.” I shake his hand once and let go. His gloves are warmed from the steering wheel.</p><p>“That’s true,” Haru points out. “Any time we plan something, either Ren’s out of the country or you’re busy with work, Goro.”</p><p>“It could be universal”, I suggest. “Maybe the world will explode if we touch.”</p><p>(It might.)</p><p>“Then the planets have finally aligned”, Yusuke announces. I take a glance down at his feet—yes, those are flippers. “What a marvelous occasion. If you’ll excuse me, Haru you told me there was a shell pool nearby?”</p><p>“Oh, yes! I’ll show you.”</p><p>Sea urchins, I think miserably. Rockfish. Similarly terrifying things. Makoto’s pointer finger presses the crease in my forehead and smooths it out.</p><p>“Stop”, she says knowingly and pulls away, hefting the blankets further under her arm and following after Yusuke and Haru.</p><p>“Need a hand?”</p><p>I look at Goro, who’s eyeing the cooler I’ve been cradling in my arms like a newborn baby.</p><p>“Uh, sure.”</p><p>We each take one handled side of the cooler and let it hang between us as we follow the others down to shore.</p><p>“I don’t know how he isn’t cold”, Goro muses aloud, Yusuke’s figure in the distance seen diving into the ocean.</p><p>“I know, I’m freezing. It’s barely even 6.”</p><p>“Perhaps you should have dressed a little warmer.” Goro’s scarf is the colour of an apricot rose. Ahead, I spot Ann and Ryuji arguing by the unlit bonfire.</p><p>“Hopefully we get a fire started”, is all I say. “So, Goro Akechi, huh? Like Kogorō, the detective.”</p><p>“I must have heard that joke a million times before”, he replies, but he’s smiling back at me.</p><p>Down on the beach our shoes are slipped off. Ann shimmies around in her silky shawl handing out drinks and we discover simultaneously that Ryuji has brought his guitar and all groan (“Stop being <em>that</em> guy!” Futaba exclaims.) Makoto is the one to successfully light the fire, of course, and Yusuke appears to have become transfixed with a shell. It’s in moments like these my body decides for me—step up or step out. I can feel myself lingering away, quieting. I feel like I’m on another planet or in another body. I face the sunset and nothing about it clicks for me—how did all of those great poets write about it? It was as good as a glass of water tipped over. I thought then that maybe I was just jaded. The ocean was the ocean was the ocean: don’t think too much about it.</p><p>A few minutes pass and I hear the sound of sinking sand behind me. Haru wraps an arm around my lower back and leans her head on my chest. I shift my arm around her shoulders.</p><p>“You looked quite deep in thought”, she notes.</p><p>“I’m not, really.”</p><p>“It’s just a beach.”</p><p>“I know. It’s not that.”</p><p>“Then what?”</p><p>I don’t know. I’m lonely, maybe. I haven’t been grounded for so long and my expectations of the ocean have brewed since I was a child no matter how much I’ve claimed they haven’t. I think I expected to see the ocean and have it fix what’s gone wrong inside of me. What’s always been going wrong? My hurtling, barbed neuroses.</p><p>“I don’t know”, I tell her, and crack a smile. “Anyway, it’s <em>your </em>almost-birthday. We should be focusing on doing whatever you want to do, even if that means driving a few hours to some cold beach.” She laughs and squeezes my hip.</p><p>“We’ll come back in the summer, then. You might enjoy it more.”</p><p>“Promise?”</p><p>“Pinkie swear.”</p><p>We solemnly shake pinkies then laugh again. I kiss her head.</p><p>“Happy birthday, Haru. Love you.”</p><p>“I love you, too,” she beams. “Let’s go steal Futaba’s marshmallows.”</p><p>Back at the bonfire, Goro’s set up his things next to the chair where I’ve left my shoes. Ann is beside him, staring doubtfully at Yusuke who has abandoned his chair in order to attempt a sand castle. Ryuji strums out-of-tune next to him. Makoto waves Haru over and Haru gives my hand a short squeeze before sitting with her. The fire crackles, and the sun does eventually begin to set with speed.</p><p>
  <em>I have never been able to remember this part, but at some point Goro and I scoot closer to each other; our seats low in the sand, his coat over his lap and his collar popped. The sun is gone and the stars are out, everyone’s faces painted in an orange glow. Suddenly, love. Love. Love, love, love and whatever colours you have left to paint with, whatever jam you have left in the jar, whatever part of my brain that’s still in the sky on some airplane going nowhere. I have never been able to remember this part.</em>
</p><p>“Still cold?” Goro asks. I hum, fuzzy with wine, with the warmth of him tilted towards me and the warmth of the fire growing ever taller. I show him the goose bumps on my hand, my fingers knocking his bottle of iced tea.</p><p>“I’m expecting the frostbite to settle in soon.”</p><p>He laughs and peels off one of his gloves, holding it out to me just out of reach.</p><p>“Here”, he offers. “To keep your hand warm.”</p><p>“But then we’re both at a disadvantage.”</p><p>“I’m at no disadvantage. It’s your own fault if you are.”</p><p>
  <em>This glove will go to Spain, to Australia, to Rome. This glove will walk strides it has never dreamed of. This glove, his glove, my glove, our hands.</em>
</p><p>“Makoto mentioned you worked at her firm.”</p><p>“Yes, I’m a prosecutor.”</p><p>“You enjoy that?”</p><p>“Sometimes”, he squints like I’ve said something funny. “I suppose we all do what we’re good at.”</p><p>“So you <em>don’t</em> like your job.”</p><p>“Does anyone?”</p><p>I listen to the ocean behind us. “Yes”, I decide, and wonder if it’s true, coming out of my mouth. “There are reasons for why we do things.”</p><p>“What’s your reason, Ren?”</p><p>“I guess I’m still trying to figure it out. What about you?</p><p>“I always felt very protective of the younger children at the orphanage I grew up in. I wanted to work within the law because so often I saw adults interested in using the young rather than helping them. There are too many irresponsible people and not enough with good intentions and the power or drive to do something. I can do something. I suppose it all fostered my view of the justice system today.”</p><p>“A little black and white.”</p><p>“Nobody has time for grey.”</p><p>“Sure they do. I do.”</p><p>“I don’t know, I’ve always felt destined towards this occupation. Like I could be little else even if I tried. It’s hard to see it as anything other than what it is.”</p><p>“You believe in that? Destiny?”</p><p>“I might. I suppose it’s silly when destiny never affords us the treat of completing our desires or childhood dreams.”</p><p>“What was your dream?” He smiles shyly.</p><p>“You’ll laugh at me.”</p><p>“I won’t. If anything, you’ll probably laugh at me.”</p><p>“Why, what’s yours?”</p><p>“Cowboy”, I drawl, and he does laugh.</p><p>“I can see it… My mother was a jazz singer. I wanted to be like her.”</p><p>“A singer?”</p><p>“Yes, but I was never any good.”</p><p>“What’s that song”, Haru suddenly hums. <em>“Doo, doo, doo…”</em></p><p>Looking up from his crumpled sand-castle, Yusuke asks: “Are you sure it’s not <em>doo, doo, </em>doo?”</p><p>“Oh <em>doo, doo, </em>doo.” Ryuji nods. “Yes, I know that one.”</p><p>“<em>Doo, doo, </em>doo”, Futaba joins in. “My favourite. Robbed of a Grammy.”</p><p>Our laughter crackles with the fire. We are as good as the embers disappearing into the sky and the soot staining the sand. These are moments from your life that you cannot forget, not ever, not for anyone. Ryuji plucks a little finger fret that sounds like <em>Smoke On The Water.</em></p><p>“Ryuji”, Ann announces, “I have a request.”</p><p>“Please, no Aqua”, Makoto begs.</p><p>“But Ryuji only knows 5 songs”, Futaba points out</p><p>“Which ones?” Goro asks me.</p><p>“2 of them are by this obscure Norwegian band because of a phase he had in middle school”, I murmur back to him. “One is <em>Barbie Girl</em> by Aqua, and the 4<sup>th</sup> is Yellow <em>Submarine</em>.”</p><p>Suddenly Ryuji strums loud, discordant notes.</p><p>
  <em>“I’m an alligator!”</em>
</p><p>Futaba gives a whoop, leaning forward on her camping chair and sending her marshmallows into the air. It lands pitifully in Yusuke’s newly carved moat.</p><p>
  <em>“I’m a mama-papa coming for you!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m the space invader!”</em>
</p><p>Ann stumbles to her feet, raising both arms in the air: “<em>I’ll be a rockin’ rollin’ bitch for you!”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Keep your mouth shut!”</em>
</p><p>Goro’s head tilts back in his chair, throat exposed as he sings loud, wildly: <em>“You’re squawking like a pink monkey bird!”</em></p><p>And everyone is gone.</p><p>Fingerprints that were still in the making on Yusuke’s sandcastle continue to wait for their defining pressure, Makoto and Haru’s blanket falls in place, glasses of wine spill and Ryuji’s guitar hits the sand wetly. Goro keeps humming, reaching out to pat my bare hand.</p><p>“It’s almost like a final meal before you die, don’t you think?” He squeezes my fingers, pointing his toes out towards the fire to warm them. I swallow but the words still don’t want to come. My throat clicks. <em>I don’t want to lose you </em>I try to say. <em>This.</em></p><p>“You don’t have that choice anymore”, he tells me. “There’s no point in wishing for something you can’t have. You <em>chose</em> to do this.”</p><p>“<em>You </em>erased <em>me</em>—it’s why I’m here.”</p><p>“You’re not bound to follow me wherever I go, Ren.”</p><p>“But I am.” I feel pathetic. Bound and unbound, still dragging my feet. My eyes are burning the same way they burn when you don’t want to let anyone know you’re about to cry. “I love you.”</p><p>“You do, don’t you? You love me so much.” He pauses to trace the line of my middle finger. “Why did we break up, do you think?”</p><p>“I don’t know, why does anyone?”</p><p>“Stop being smart. Try again.”</p><p>There are moments in life where you have to be honest with yourself. 19, when you think your life’s already at its end and you don’t have a job and your parents are struggling. 33, when you think your life’s already at its end and you’re lonely and want company. 16, when you think the best thing to do is kill yourself while you’re ahead. Be honest. Be honest. You can’t swim, and you don’t know how to dance.</p><p>Be honest: I have missed you every single day. I have dreamed of you every night.</p><p>“I wanted someone to fix me”, I whisper. “And I tried to fix myself in you. I hurt you, and you hurt me.”</p><p>“I hated you.”</p><p>“You did. We hated each other.”</p><p>“Still do, probably.”</p><p>I shake my head. “I always meant it when I said I’d love you always. I loved you even when you hurt me; I loved you even when I hurt you. Fuck. I’m <em>fine </em>with forgetting you—” but my voice cracked. We both knew I wasn’t fine, both knew I was just biding time. I was always biding time. Next appointment, next call, next thing to go wrong. He looks me in the eye, and I think of my dad.</p><p>“I never thought I’d be the one saying this, but some things aren’t destined to fucking end. Just because things <em>do</em> end doesn’t mean your life stops. There are sure things in the world, Ren.”</p><p>It’s like the whole course of our relationship was just switching anxieties and then fucking about it later. Goro’s chair doesn’t creak beneath him like it should, but he leans over and pulls me in for a kiss. There’s ice settling on our skin. The sweating warmth under our clothing. Kissing, and kissing again. Frostbite. Alpines we don’t know the name of.</p><p>“This is the part where you ask me to stay.” Goro is a quiet breeze, the barest brush of sand on my toes. “Remind me how you asked.”</p><p>“Goro…”</p><p>“I know you remember.” His lips touch mine as he talks. “Don’t lie and say you’ve forgotten already.”</p><p>“Ten minutes”, I murmur.</p><p>“Five”, he counters. “I have work in the morning.”</p><p>“Five and I get a kiss the next time I see you.”</p><p>“You can have one now, you just have to ask.”</p><p>“Please.”</p><p>When we were together you were always so clear, always in my line of sight. Pale but defined—I loved your thick black lines. I loved your lips and your eyes, and the way your hair felt between my fingers. I loved the way your hands held mine and the way your face would tuck against my neck when we hugged. I try to remember you now. I can’t pull you into focus. I’m left with this outline of what you were, burned into my periphery, and when I do grab for your hand it’s thinner than I remember. You’ve cut your nails. You’ve changed. You’ve been living within me but loving without me. You’re a greeting card I’ve torn up and swallowed, smudgy ink printed on my stomach lining; <em>I love you always.</em> Why did ‘always’ have to mean ‘until I don’t?’ I want to be the clothes you wear. I want to be the shoes you slip you feet into. I wish I was still the music you listened to.</p><p>“I want you”, I manage to get out, slurring across his lips, and I’m shaking so hard I wonder if it can disguise my stumbling, childish heart. Tie your shoelaces, I want to hiss at it. Take a fucking Valium. “I want you. You have to know that.”</p><p>You have a body and hands and fingers and nails and you’re with me, here, and we’re together. And you’ve cut your hair and I love your hair. Except it’s not now it’s then—it’s <em>then</em>. I can’t have <em>then</em> anymore.</p><p>We are surrounded by sleet and sand. Goro is always ahead of me but always out of sight. Doppler Effect. Goro is always beside me. Doppler Effect. He’s gone as soon as I reach out.</p><p>“If you can find me, you can have me.” I should follow the tracks his shoes have left but I’m stuck, sinking. Finding him meant losing him all over again.</p><p>“If I don’t?” His thumb skims my cheek.</p><p>“Paint a backdoor to this. Find the trees and the wind and the salt and find your way back to me.” He smiles. “You’re pretty good at that.”</p><p>Suddenly it’s like Ryuji’s plucked another god-awful string. I can feel my hands in the sand. I can feel the sea breeze. I can feel Goro’s arms around me. The tide wants me dead and it sings a white noise in my ears. Just let me keep this memory. Just let me keep this single moment.</p><p>“It’s going to be okay.”</p><p>And I, I dream I am wading through a shallow ocean that soothes the aching in my knees. It never seems to deepen, only aiming to keep me afloat. The tide arrives in short lashes and the sun shines a tan from here to Harajuku. I keep going, keep trudging through the dissolving sand, the sound. I want to find Goro again.</p><p>He stands out on the water, counting the stars. He looks back, over his shoulder, and smiles. The ocean has never been so still, but I think when someone like him exists, the world has to stop and look at him. I had to stop and look.</p><p>This is the collapsing scenery of what I once had.</p><p>He is beside me again, tucking my hair back and pressing his lips to the shell of my ear.</p><p>“Meet me on Hashirimizu beach.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank u for reading!</p><p>— tnevmucric.carrd.co</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. the beginning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This was the opposite of déjà vu, where everything everywhere is always a stranger but the day is so familiar because it’s the day you’ve had every single weekday of your shitty, boring life.</p><p>Right?</p><p>“You look nice.”</p><p>If Goro told me I looked nice every day for the rest of my life I don’t think I’d ever get sick of it. I feel myself blush as he laughs at me, pulling his seat belt on. He’s set a stack of mail on the dash. </p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>“Just a build up from a few days”, he replies, pulling the elastic away from it and immediately beginning to sift through. “I haven’t been home in a few days, you don’t mind if I read it in the car do you?”</p><p>“’Course not Mr. Prosecutor.”</p><p>“Funny.”</p><p>“Just lightening the mood. What kind of date starts with bills? Not a great one.”</p><p>“How do you know if this is a date or not?”</p><p>“Now that’s funny.”</p><p>“There’s no reason to be nervous.”</p><p>“I’m not nervous.”</p><p>“You’re overcompensating.”</p><p>“Am I?”</p><p>“Just a little.” He tucks a coupon under his thigh. “Don’t worry, I still like you.”</p><p>“That’s reassuring.” I spot the tail end of a magazine. “Do you have a subscription with Psychology Today?”</p><p>“Why, are you interested?”</p><p>“Oh, yeah. It’s what got me through a lot of my early teens when I flirted with imagination and nihilism like every other self-pretentious kid with Nietzsche on loan at the library.”</p><p>“I don’t remember you being this cheeky yesterday.”</p><p>“I’ve had time to settle”, Stopping at a red light, I glance at him, catching his smile. “Happy Valentine’s again, by the way. You look nice too.”</p><p>His smile widens, but as he goes to reply something on the letter in front of him catches his eye. He’s opened an envelope that looks exactly like what that girl had been holding.</p><p>“What the hell?” </p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>Goro frowns, reading aloud: “ ‘I worked at a clinic that offered a permanent solution to pain: memory loss. The tape attached is audio proof of your consent to the procedure and also what you chose to forget.’ ”</p><p>“What does that mean?” I ask but he’s ripping the tape away from a thick piece of card and pressing it into my old cars cassette spot. There’s a long whir before it starts up.</p><p><em>“My name is Goro Akechi”,</em> the tape begins, <em>“and I’m here to erase Ren Amamiya.”</em></p><p>We’ve frozen, the two of us. Two strangers frozen in a car. It sounds like the start to a bad joke.</p><p>
  <em>“He makes it his job to know everything about you. All of your problems, your likes, your dislikes—you become his study. He knows what to say and what not to say and he’s always thinking of ways to fix you. How is anyone fucking like that? You can’t fix people. You can’t save people—you can’t save your mother by saving other people.”</em>
</p><p>Punchline.</p><p>“Get out.”</p><p>Goro stares at me wide eyed. There’s a car honking behind me, the light turned green ages ago.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You heard me.” My throat’s closing, closing, shutting down for the holidays. Dad said: never tie yourself down to anyone. Mom said: never depend on anyone but yourself. My heart’s pounding. “Get the fuck out of my car.”</p><p>There’s an awful pause in time with the lurching of my stomach then Goro ejects the tape and snatches it away, sliding out and slamming the car door behind him.</p><p>This is your life falling apart.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“He always tried to outdo me in public. For a while it was this fun rivalry but it turned into… he made me resent how much better he was than me. I guess that’s my own problem. He liked it, I think. That just pissed me off.”</p><p>The letter in my hand is plainly typed with no letterhead.</p><p>
  <em>My name is Sumire Yoshizawa and we have met before.</em>
</p><p>This is your life turning blue, kicking its feet out, struggling to breathe. I’m choking. Choke, fucking choke, my brain tells me. Gag on nothing. This is lovesickness. My body isn’t mine and this head isn’t the same—what have these hands done in the time I’ve been away? What other lips have I kissed, what secrets have I missed? When I go into a new café, are they going to welcome me back or will they have already prepared my usual? The grain of the wood floor feels different under my feet and I plead—realign, realign, I need to realign myself in the world. Downstairs Sojiro’s brewing for a couple of regulars but what regulars have I missed? What regulars have met this other me? What has happened to me?</p><p>Everything, apparently. I’m a time-traveler who’s fucked up the continuum.</p><p>Two toothbrushes, I think. More days I can’t remember.</p><p><em>“Even now I don’t think I really believe in any of this”,</em> I’m saying on the tape. <em>“I’m expecting I’ll find him somewhere out there, somewhere in the glow just past my periphery, where memory erasure hasn’t yet touched him, waiting for me to come back.”</em></p><p><em>“Is that a habit of yours?”</em> a woman asks.</p><p>
  <em>“Sorry?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“When you can’t process something, you try to explain it from a very impersonal approach. As if you’re describing someone else’s life. A story.”</em>
</p><p>There’s a long pause.</p><p>
  <em>“I guess after all of this, I will have been.”</em>
</p><p>The door to my apartment creaks open and Goro stares back at me soberly. He shouldn’t be here but somehow I’m not surprised. Not in the least.</p><p>“The man downstairs knew who I was”, he says finally. I rub at my face.</p><p>“He’s my adoptive dad. Figures you’d have met.”</p><p><em>“He always reminded me of my mom”,</em> I say on tape. I hate myself. He tilts his head, listening like a bird waiting to be trained a new word.</p><p>“This is yours? About me?”</p><p>Is this shame?</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>He slowly steps the rest of the way into the apartment and lets the door shut behind him, leaning back against it.</p><p><em>“Sometimes I wish we’d never met. It was always a joke between us that fate kept us apart—I just wish we’d kept never meeting. That night, we were sitting shoulder to shoulder and he gave me one of his gloves because earlier I’d been complaining how cold it was. His hand touched mine and… I think he meant to pull away straight away but he lingered, like he forgot himself. I forgot myself. I remember being so transfixed about the way he sat with me. Nothing about Goro has ever been easy. He thought it was funny, how challenging he could be, but that first night we met was the most gentle I’d ever seen him.”</em> Like an afterthought; <em>“I wonder if he was having a bad day. Maybe I should have asked. But then, I guess I didn’t really know.”</em></p><p>“No one has ever known me like you know me and we can’t even remember”, Goro says quietly. I stare at him. I’m almost jealous of my other self—he got a gentle meeting and I got to meet the challenger, yet we both still fell in love.</p><p>“You got rid of me first.”</p><p>“You were petty enough to get rid of me after finding out.”</p><p>“Because I loved you.”</p><p>“Because I <em>love</em> you”, Goro retorts, a harsh whisper. “I don’t know how I can, or why I do but I know I love you like I know how to breathe or eat. I love you and I erased you. And it feels like some kind of punchline but I don’t understand the joke. You know, I haven’t been able to figure out why I had a second used toothbrush at my sink. It’s been bothering me for days.”</p><p>What’s here is completely irreversible. I feel betrayed by my own mind, my impulsivity I’ve never met before and by a man I barely know the name of. Ren. Ren. I taste it on my tongue—it doesn’t feel like who I’ve grown up with all these years, who hasn’t apparently grown up at all. How could I do this to myself? How could I lose so much, so quickly all over again? Wouldn’t I understand? Wouldn’t I be compassionate, understand the ache of an empty chest more than a broken one? I swallow and all I can taste is the rawness of my own throat as the cold bites closer. Ren. I hate him. And apparently I hate Goro Akechi, who I loved for years of my life and lost in the blink of an eye. And I can’t even have the surety of asking for the erasure again. How impossible it seemed in this moment that I could ever run from Goro—I’ve never been so confident that we were made to grow, burn, and die out. Dad said: a good woman shuts up. Mom said: a good man keeps to himself. Mom and dad have been wrong about a lot of things.</p><p>There’s love here, and I want to find it again.</p><p>“Things would be different if we could try again.”</p><p>Meek, that’s a new word. I feel meek. He stares straight through me and something, something like my liver or lungs just convulse—I’ve known those eyes far beyond any regular perception and those eyes have known me.</p><p>“I think that goes without saying, but it’s inevitable that we’d hate each other again. There’s no point in continuing this when I’m going to resent you for trying to fix me and you’re going to hate me for how I act towards you.”</p><p>“So you’re going to let someone else dictate what you feel?”</p><p>“It’s different when that someone else just so happens to be me, Ren.”</p><p>“Then base it off of yesterday”, I stand, meeting him at the doorway. “The day we somehow ended up on the same beach we met at four years ago, and sat on a train together talking about all of the random bullshit we’ve probably spoken about before. Base it on that and then tell me you still want to let this go.”</p><p>Relationships are a mess of he-said, she-said. We’re living the same different lives in parallel and waiting for the end—whether that be death or break-up, you’ve yet to know. The fact is, is that I can spout all of this wisdom crap but you’re still going to do it. You’re going to go out there and fall in love and get your heart broken and try, try again. And so you should. Don’t let us stop you.</p><p>“Things would be different if we could try again”, I repeat. We can.</p><p>“I had a dream the night before last”, Goro whispers.</p><p>Try, try and try again. It’s all you can do.</p><p>“You were in it.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this fic has been entirely self-indulgent and silly but i hope someone out there has resonated with at least a bit of it. thank u for reading!</p><p>— tnevmucric.carrd.co</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>